Saddlebags Full of Books
by CGKrows
Summary: A peculiar ranger of southern Ithilien is reassigned to Osgiliath with his unit, finding himself serving under Faramir and his elder, Captain-General brother. The man would rather be reading books and harassing Haradrim at his former post than combating orcs from Mordor with the Steward-sons. Will they come to learn something from this quirky, novel-reading man? Is he a man at all?
1. Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have no idea why this story was taken down by fanfiction, but it was taken down. I am reposting it, and I will continue writing for it due to my fondness for the characters. Enjoy, and do review!

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A peculiar ranger captain, commanding a rowdy garrison of Southwestern Ithilien men, is reassigned to Osgiliath with his subordinates, finding himself serving under Faramir and his elder, Captain-General brother. The man would rather be reading books and harassing Haradrim at his former post than combating orcs from Mordor with the Steward-sons. But as time passes, the Steward-sons begin to question the captain's personal background. Will they come to learn something from this quirky, book-reading man? Is he a man at all?

* * *

 **Chapter One:** _ **Siddhartha**_ **by Hermann Hesse**

* * *

 _3018th Year of the Third Age; Osgiliath, early spring..._

* * *

He first saw him in Osgiliath.

Faramir and his brother, Boromir, had just returned to the ruined city from Minas Tirith. The Steward had given them his orders, and the usual dose of barely concealed contempt had been shot towards his youngest heir. Boromir, ever the well-meaning elder brother Faramir deserved, had attempted to steer Denethor's attention away from his sibling; little success had been achieved. Faramir took the verbal abuse, much like he had throughout his childhood, with head bowed slightly and his lips kept in a solid line. Thankfully, the two Steward-sons were now miles away from their less-than-stellar parent. Boromir, as soon as he'd dismounted from his steed, immediately rushed into the loud bustle of crowding soldiers. Faramir simply stared after him, fondly, shaking his head amusedly. A young man, somewhere around his seventeenth winter, awkwardly held the reins of Boromir's monstrous horse.

"Lord Boromir seems rushed today, milord," commented the teen, unbidden words tumbling from his mouth. He was blushing too, most likely embarrassed before the higher-ranked Steward-son. The armor which he wore was badly fitted, the shoulder guards sculpted for a broader set of shoulders. The young man still had short hair too, adding further to the youthful image. Faramir was hit with feelings of pity, but only in passing. _Brother and I served at such an age; I cannot criticize him._

"And you cannot blame him," Faramir returned, easily slipping from his equine's saddle. "Even the slightest use of time away from this place is a loss of time that can cost us dearly."

The youngster jerked his head up and down, understanding but uncomfortable. "M-May I take your horse, milord?"

Faramir nodded, throwing a smile, thanking the nervous teenage soldier. He stood watching the lad maneuver the animals off to where the rest of the mounts were housed, thoughtful. He turned thereafter, walking about the broken stone and sloshing water of the ruined city in search of his elder sibling. Faramir passed small groups of resting soldiers and Ithilien rangers, most of whom tucked themselves into dry crevices or atop fractured walls fully armored, many greeting the youngest heir to the Steward upon seeing him. The man bowed his head in return, but did not loiter, taken with curiosity as to what had transpired while he and Boromir had been in Minas Tirith with their father.

"Hail, Lord Faramir!"

The leader of the Ithilien Rangers swiveled on his wet leathered heels, meeting the sight of his trusted friend and guard briskly moving through the heavy mob of armored Gondorians.

"Ah, Damrod! Well met, my friend. I am searching for my brother, but he seems to elude me."

"He is speaking to a number of the captains, last I saw. Seeing Boromir in Osgiliath oft' means you must be here as well, so I left to seek you out."

"I see. Do you have news of what has occurred during our absence?"

Damrod gave a short nod, gesturing at his charge to walk with him. Without a word, Faramir obeyed, the two swiftly moving through the ruins and debris. Soldiers parted for the pair as they rushed.

"Much has happened, Faramir," began Damrod. "Orcs ambushed a garrison of rangers stationed on the front lines during the twilight hour, three days after you and your brother had set off for the White City. Somehow the devils managed to sneak across the river, but thankfully Gárwine's soldiers stopped them from getting farther than the riverbank. When we sent a messenger off with the tidings, he returned with new orders from the Steward: to relocate rangers stationed close to the crossings of Poros here to take the place of the men we lost. They have arrived just this morning, and Poros requests the garrison be brought back, or to assign suitable replacements for support. They are undermanned after Lord Denethor relocated the ranger garrison."

"Relocated?!" cried Faramir, shocked at his father's decision. The Steward hadn't told either of his heirs anything of such a decision, and the idea his own parent was distrusting of both himself and Boromir greatly troubled him in that moment. "The Easterlings still continue to pressure us there, hoping to sneak into lower Ithilien and attack Osgiliath from the south whilst we fend off the darkness of Mordor on the east banks."

Damrod shrugged helplessly, looking less than pleased with the news himself. His dark eyebrows were pinched, grey eyes not very enthused. "What was done is done, milord. I am not the Steward's keeper, and never will. Since they are ranger folk, they fall to your command at this current time. They have been sitting about with their horses for hours, awaiting orders from their commander."

Faramir stared at his dark-haired comrade, pursing his lips in a frustrated fashion, then huffed out an equally frustrated breath. The youngest Steward-son wondered to God how Denethor was his father, though only quietly to himself. Boromir would be slighted if he said such things aloud.

"Where are these new rangers? I wish to meet them, if they are in fact under my direct command now."

"Of course," Damrod said easily as they walked on through the clutter of armed Gondorians, "Where do you believe I have been leading you all this time?"

The corners of Faramir's lips twitched with amusement, "I know not how you think, Damrod, contrary to common belief. I am no elf, despite the tall tales that circulate of me."

His personal guard chuckled, "Indeed! Faramir, Captain-Commander of the Ithilien rangers, son of the Steward, would-be prince of Gondor, and so great a warrior, the men can only give the excuse of the possibility that elvish blood must run through your veins!"

The pair laughed, strolling into one of the many debris-ridden courtyards of stone. It was not as jammed with bodies as other areas inhabited by the forces of Gondor, but soldiers nonetheless loitered in the cool shade of the ruins while trying to keep their feet above water. It seemed like Osgiliath would always be partially flooded because of the bloated Anduin river, though there were islands of dryness in some more elevated parts of the dead city. The two men wandered past the decimated fountain centered in the middle of the area, finding themselves in a large dry patch riddled with crumbled rock. Little puddles of filthy water dotted the ground, but most of the rubble kept the water away.

Men, lounging indolently around on the larger stone masses with their horses standing about in huddled groups, immediately stumbled to attention at the sight of Faramir. Pipes were clumsily shuffled away into pockets or jerkins, carved bone dice and coinage was rapidly hidden under cloaks to disguise the fact a few of them had been gambling, and some hurriedly stuffed thin rolls of parchment into their clothes. The Steward-son's countenance wrinkled in bewilderment at the sight of the motley bunch of hunters before him.

There were forty-five odd in number, dressed much like any ranger would be but with obvious discrepancies. A couple of them, beyond their leather jerkins and standard cloaks, wore coats of questionably eastern origin. The fine weave, the intricate patterns, the vibrant colors, and the camel hide-lining made them warm but earnestly not Gondorian. Some of the men simply wore no cloak, draping themselves in wide scarf-shawls or vests made from eastern animal furs. One or two rangers had bandanas wrapped about their heads, by God! Even flashes of eastern jewelry could be seen, such as a ring or an earring. Weapons too, judging by the strange feathers for arrow fletches in a few quivers or the curved nature of assorted sword sheaths. It would be wrong to say that Faramir wasn't surprised; the Steward-son was speechless.

But there was one man who stood out amongst the _―_ what could one call them? _―_ _misfits_. He sat atop the largest boulder in the courtyard, posture straight and attentive. Brunette hair fell in frenzied waves to his shoulders, face surprisingly lacking in facial hair and youthful. If he stood, Faramir reckoned he'd be only two inches or so shorter than he. A thin braid could be seen amidst the man's hair, falling farther down than his shoulder to the bottom edges of his ribcage. The end was secured with a number of beads, some gold and others painted ceramic. The young ranger wore no eastern clothes, showed no sign of wearing eastern finery (not counting the beads in his strange little braid), and did not seem bothered by Faramir's presence. His eyes, which were a startling hazel mixture, met Faramir's calmly. In his hands, a weathered book was open, the cover strangely designed with words in a language the Steward-son did not know. The man's horse, a patchy brown mare, stood about at the base of the boulder with saddlebags looking ready to burst.

"Who is in charge of this squadron?" called Faramir, glancing around at the rag-tag group of rangers. Awkwardly, they stared at him, not volunteering any viable information as they shifted where they stood.

"That would be me, sir."

The young man the Steward-son had previously noticed raised his arm with book in hand. His voice was at an interim between a somewhat high pitch and boy-like. It was nearly effeminate, yet deep. _Very young for his station, this one_. Faramir never thought he'd be surprised as much as he was that day.

Blinking his grey eyes, "May I ask for your name?"

The youth smirked, closing his _―_ was that _parchment?_ _―_ bound book. "You may indeed, sir. I am Istuion, son of none. Behind me somewhere is my second, Ohtar, son of Erland."

An older-looking man, wearing a paisley blue scarf-shawl and three gold studs in his right ear, nodded in Faramir's direction. The crow's feet about his blue eyes and the weathered creases on his brow showed his late middle age. He had a short peppered beard, and a hint of a tattoo crawled around his neck, shaped like a swallow in mid-flight.

"Istuion? That is an elvish name," commented the Steward-son, glancing away from the strangely tattooed ranger to the young captain.

"That it is, sir. The man who took me in had a fondness for the fair languages. He swears to this day I have slightly poked ears, too."

The weak jest went unappreciated by Faramir and Damrod, but the rest of the garrison chuckled at the attempted humor, including Ohtar. Damrod, known for his tempestuous temper, could not keep himself quiet any longer.

"Why is your garrison dressed like a rabble of Easterlings?"

Somebody choked on their poorly-hidden pipe awkwardly, and Istuion's lips thinned with an abrupt lack of amusement. His book was stuffed under his jerkin. "Do you have a problem with my men dressing a little warmer than normal?" He challenged. The sarcasm was heavy in his tone.

Damrod huffed, mildly affronted at the retort. Faramir moved in to stop the argument before it started. "I may not have a problem with it," he said, "But the Captain-General will." Boromir had to make sure their father's will was carried out, and the Steward did not support exchanges over enemy lines beyond killing blows. Faramir, by extension, had to do the same.

"Even if the eastern goods are spoils of a successful repelling of enemies?" tried the youth, twisting his face in a childishly pleading fashion. It seemed almost mocking, but the playful glint in Istuion's eyes belied that.

Faramir gave the young captain an unamused look. "Even then."

Istuion heaved a questionably dramatic sigh, his unique muddled eyes yet again giving away his thoughts at the subtle order. The young man wasn't pleased.

He turned his head tiredly towards his men, "Alright, you heard him!" He bellowed, "Stow it all!"

Groans, sighs, and not-so-quiet curses rose up from the misfit garrison. Coats, rings, and other eastern finery were stripped from their bodies and shoved into saddlebags or packs. Istuion's second, Ohtar, reluctantly shed his scarf-shawl. With it removed, the swallow tattoo became more obvious, as well as revealing carefully inked branches just peaking out from his jerkin. Damrod and Faramir exchanged a look before turning their gazes back to Istuion.

"Why _did_ you let your men wear eastern garb?" wondered Faramir.

The young captain hopped off from his perch atop the boulder nimbly, landing before the Steward-son with his cloak flapping wildly behind him. "It's a bit of a tale, sir. Guarding the crossings of Poros is not an average post, truth be told, compared to the madness that goes on here with the Orcs."

"And how is that outpost any different from any other ranger posting?" Damrod said sternly.

"There are two _―_ no, excuse me, three _―_ types of Haradrim that wish to cross the Poros, sir. The Harad who wish to trade, the Harad who wish to kill, and the Harad who are loyal to the Blue Wizards," explained the youth. The look in his mercurial-colored eyes told them he felt like he was talking to a child.

"Those who sought trade asked for little: _meat_ , oftentimes deer or whatever manner of bird fowl we managed to hunt, _greens_ , such as mint, edible roots, or kingsfoil, and _metal_ , which we usually had in an abundance from the corpses of the Haradrim wishing to kill our garrison. Those who wished to kill… Well, they simply wanted to carry out the will of the Deceiver and end us all. But, those who were loyal to the Blue Wizards… They came with tidings, supplies, and weapons. At sunrise they approached in white and blue, their heads wrapped in colorful _keffiyeh_ , atop packed camels. Whatever we learned in the initial diplomatic exchange we made sure to send to the Steward, and whatever we had leftover from their offerings of supplies went with the supply train that would come to give us rations. Walda, our garrison's master of tongues, has a habit of recording the goings-on and acting as our representative."

Istuion turned to point towards one of the men in the crowd of loitering rangers, where a scar was prominent over the bridge of his nose and another down his right cheek. He was fumbling with a stack of well-worn parchment, fingers stained from the continuous use of charcoal, which was held loosely in one hand. The man politely looked up at the mention of his name and nodded in their direction.

Faramir and Damrod stared back at the young man, caught somewhere between unspoken uncertainty and shock. How did he manage to puzzle out the differences between the peoples who approached their outpost, to have such an intuition? True, those native to Ithilien had, at one point long ago, traded sparsely with easterners. But how did this young man manage to have a comrade able to speak the eastern languages? Was he even from Ithilien, or simply assigned to a squadron of men who were from the locale? Who would be so dedicated, or even caring, to bother figuring out the differences? Was there a motive? To a Gondorian, an Easterling was simply another enemy to kill on sight. The young captain's attentiveness seemed to have a wider scope, beyond an interest in books and conversation, than Faramir first thought.

"So you have been conversing with them?" questioned Damrod in disbelief, "Trading with them?"

An emotion flickered briefly across the young captain's face, too fast for either man to interpret. "They are men, sir, not beasts. Fellow men earn to be treated like men, not as Orcs." His voice was firm, daring Damrod to challenge his words.

The Steward-son, in his silence, studied Istuion as Damrod prodded further at the youth. The name Istuion meant "learned" in Elvish, though Faramir could not remember which dialect of the elves it originated from in that moment. He could see now, from what the young man had so far said and displayed, why the youth's caretaker had named him so. _Greeting me with a weathered book in his hand?_ Something about Istuion reminded him of himself, though if Boromir were there to offer his opinion he'd immediately know why. Both were lean, tall, and intellectually inclined. The young man's eyes were probably the biggest shock to Faramir, compared to his distinct intellectualism. Men of Gondor did not have hazel eyes, nor did men of Rohan. Green eyes were rare enough, grey was common, blue slightly uncommon, brown generic, and a muddled mixture of all four shades _completely unheard of!_ Yet there Istuion stood; calm, obviously not against using his wit, and with a gaze completely his own.

The Steward-son favored the young man already.

"Am I to follow your orders then, Damrod?" questioned Istuion, "Or is my new commander the man beside you?"

Blinking back into awareness, Faramir spoke. "I am Faramir, Son of the Steward, Captain-Commander of the Ithilien Rangers. It was by my father's orders you were relocated here for me to command."

The young captain eyed the man. "A Captain-Commander, eh? Your brother must be Lord Boromir, then; our Captain-General."

Faramir nodded. "He is. You will come to know him in time, as he meets routinely with the captains of the garrisons."

Istuion grimaced, looking less than eager at the thought of war meetings. "How thrilling."

Ohtar, having not participated in the talk, approached. Istuion looked to his left, nodding politely to his second.

"Ohtar?"

"The men wonder where we are to settle, Captain. They seem to prefer it here, with the dry rubble and higher ground," the man said. His voice was deep and graveled, his significantly dense beard reminding Faramir of a lumberman from Lossarnach.

The young captain shrugged, conveying his unsurety. "I don't know. Do we have a specific place we are assigned, Commander?" He addressed Faramir.

"Your men were sent here to replace the rangers who had fallen on the front lines. You will most likely be told to settle there," responded the Steward-son.

"The front lines?!" Griped one ranger of the garrison behind them, "That's the damn banks o' the Anduin, 'innit?"

"Oh lord..." Muttered Ohtar, his words reverberating in his throat like a low rumble of thunder.

"Hallam, by God," said Istuion, frustratedly turning on his heels, "Can you ever bother to keep your mouth shut?"

"I'll be keepin' me mouth shut when I'm not drownin' in river water and prayin' fer' Ulmo to 'ave mercy on ma' boots!"

They could already hear the grumbles of the rangers, obviously falling into a depressed state at the thought of camping directly on the riverbanks. No man would be pleased to camp on soggy earth, let alone a place where fellow men had been slaughtered by the enemy. It was a terrifying and discomforting mental image. The more superstitious ones were visibly rattled at the thought of sleeping along banks that could very well be haunted by wraiths, ghosts of the despairing dead.

Istuion's expression changed from frustration to a look stuck between dread and pleading. "You're not truly forcing us to hang around a damp, dreary, and most likely haunted area just for the sake of stopping a few orcs, are you? The wraiths, if they do exist, will sooner kill those who dared to end them than let another garrison waste their lives on a venture like that."

"Are you saying you're afraid, Istuion?" Prodded Damrod, a confronting yet mocking glint in his grey eyes. "Do you have a problem with this war, or your duty to protecting Gondor?"

"If you're calling me inadequate, Sir River Dam," he retorted sharply, "I take offense. I care about my men over my own health, thank you very much, and many of them have family to return to. I'm not leaping at the chance to leave their wives widows."

"It's war, Captain. Men have to do horrible things to reach a successful end to a conflict," Damrod declared darkly.

"That does not mean I should simply give in because I'm told to, sir. I will not walk silently into the night with my men prostrated and lifeless at my feet!" Istuion answered vehemently, hazel eyes blazing.

"Enough!" Faramir yelled, silencing them both. He looked to the young captain, "I am sorry, Istuion, that I must ask you to do this. But, I cannot allow the enemy to take Osgiliath. If they take this city, they will surely march to the doors of Minas Tirith. Though Damrod's words are harsh, they are the truth. Forgive me and my family for forcing you and your men to suffer," he spoke earnestly.

Istuion's ire dwindled at the Steward-son's small speech, but his displeasure still showed on his visage. Murky hazel eyes considered him, until the young captain bowed his head in a gesture that was comparable to hesitant submission.

"As you say, sir," he said, offering no further disagreement. The youth knew when he lost an argument, it seemed. "Will you be so kind as to lead us there?"

Faramir felt a strong rush of guilt and understanding, for the first time in a long time, as he looked upon the young captain, Istuion. The youth had the right to express his distaste at the matter, that being the war Gondor never seemed to finish, but orders were orders. There was honor to uphold, loved ones to protect, and a region to keep safe from the horrors of the Enemy. He watched as Istuion rallied his men into attention, grabbing the reins of his mount. The rangers of his small battalion did the same, stumbling over the uneven rubble. Ohtar ordered and poked around at the slowest risers, dragging his charcoal stallion along behind him. The young captain stared on, amused. Damrod simply eyed the garrison from a distance, standing beside Faramir.

"They do know the horses cannot be with them by the riverbanks, right?" Damrod asked.

"Do you believe they would allow their horses out of their sight? Truly, from how they act and how they had looked?"

The Steward-son's guard grimaced. "No." He glanced ahead of them, then back to Faramir. "They will be a troublesome lot of rangers. I've never seen such a group of Ithilien men so…" Damrod trailed off, trying to grasp at the right word.

"Dissident?" Supplied the captain-commander.

"Yes, dissident! Where do you think they came from? The southwest region, across the river from the bay city of Pelargir? I've heard the towns there are peculiar, and not adverse to trade with anyone who sails into their docks," Damrod remarked. "Either way, I would pay any man five gold to see how Lord Boromir will react these misfits. He might just revoke your father's orders and send them back to the post at Poros himself."

"Come now, my friend, you must at least like their captain."

"Istuion? He's a smart young man, I will admit. More than a little callow for his post, perhaps, but he seems fit to hold his station." He looked at Faramir with a grin, "I am sure you favor him. He's a lot like yourself, an almost perfect mirror I'd say."

The Steward-son chuckled. "Now you are being cruel," he stated.

Damrod rolled his eyes. "Let's lead them on; the sun will be slipping away behind the crags of Ephel Dúath sooner than we'd like."

Faramir nodded easily, walking towards his new squadron of misfits with his guard trailing behind. _Father's order is turning out to be quite a spectacle. He'll surely regret his decision when he visits in a few months_ …

* * *

"This is the front line?"

Ohtar smirked, regarding his commanding officer with shining blue eyes, "It is the riverbank after all, Captain."

Istuion looked out over the wide expanse of water, framed by crumbling architecture and a dreary sky, sighing. Sh _―_ _err, he_ _―_ had not expected Denethor ordering his garrison to Osgiliath.

Having dealt with bouts of bizarrity and various unexpected events to reach Minas Tirith from the Lebennin fiefdom, Istuion had thought fighting beside the rangers of Ithilien was the right thing to do. The young wom _―_ _ehh, man_ _―_ was a fighter, after all, ever since he was in middle scho _―_ _ehm, ever since the midst of his late childhood_. Iorlas, a Lebennin scholar with a taste for the fair languages, had been kind enough a soul to take Istuion in when he'd been only eighteen and a wandering alie _―_ _ahem, a foreigner to Gondor_. The bookish man made sure to thoroughly educate Andre _―_ _agh, Istuion_ _―_ in Westron, Sindarin, and Quenya, while also forcing him to take sword lessons with the local blacksmith. Passing trappers and Northmen taught the youth bits about archery, though they never stayed long. Transitioning between worl _―_ _herm, from far Arnor to western Gondor_ _―_ had been a process Istuion struggled with.

Then, in the blink of an eye, six winters had gone by and the 3015th year of the Third Age was already half over. The knowledge Istuion already possessed suddenly sparked, and the reminder that a war, once thought to be nothing but fiction, was fast approaching on the horizon threw the young wom _―_ _err, man_ _―_ into overdrive. He couldn't stand the thought of sitting around while others would be risking their hide to protect the fiefs. And, choosing to get caught up in the war by choice seemed much better than being caught up in the war by simply living in Gondor. So, packing his caretaker's brown mare, outfitting himself in proper traveling clothes, and wishing everyone in the town by the Sirith River farewell, Istuion had taken the Northmen's road through the Lebennin fiefdom to Lossarnach. From there, the young man had followed the main road between Minas Tirith and Pelargir to the capital.

And, well, the rest of the story was quite easy to infer. Istuion joined the Gondorian army, serving as one of the ranger folk, and was immediately sent with the other recently enlisted men to Osgiliath to be assigned to a post. Upon arrival, the young man had only stayed for barely an hour before being assigned to a garrison of Ithilien rangers commanded by an eccentric man named Duinhir, son of Duilin. The garrison, comprised mainly of men from the Southwest region of Ithilien, had been assigned an outpost close to the Crossings of Poros, a place where many of the Southwestern Ithilien men were quite familiar with defending. Their small battalion had only been placed at Osgiliath for the sake of replacing previous troops, and had already spent more than a few years at the outpost by that time. Barely a month past Istuion was assigned to the outpost, Duinhir, son of Duilin, had been stuck down by an arrow from an enemy Easterling. Istuion killed said Easterling in revenge. The curiously strange man who was his commanding officer had been buried underneath a mournful willow. Since Duinhir had nominated Istuion as his second, the youth gained a field promotion to Captain. Three years and numerous exchanges with several Easterlings later, Andr _―_ _eh, Istuion_ _―_ received the fateful orders to pull back and report to Osgiliath for reallocation.

 _Whoever said a captain should be grateful for his position should be shot. I prefer not to have men I consider my friends and subordinates dead within the week because of a lord's single order._ Turning away from the shore, Istuion immediately addressed her _―_ _erm, his_ _―_ commander.

"This is the front line?" repeated the youth, tone close to demanding.

The man standing beside the captain-commander, Damrod, snorted. "What do you think this place is? Farming country?"

Istuion gave the man an unimpressed look. Why the follower of the Steward-son was such a sassy grump, the young man had no idea. "Farming country at least has a fence or barrier to separate plots of land. This is the most vulnerable posting I've ever seen!" He waved his arms about as emphasis, his sword and a flash of pale ivory handles wapping his thighs. Faramir blinked, swearing to himself that the ivory color had to have been a trick of light. He hadn't seen them beforehand, so how could they exist?

"The northeast station at the Poros outpost was nearly this pitiful," Ohtar said offhandedly.

Istuion barked out a laugh, "Ha! At least it was built on the only hill in the area, giving it some kind of advantage."

The other rangers of Istuion's garrison wandered up and down the riverbank, studying the rubble piled about or the broken fragments of fallen statues sitting in the swollen shallows of the Anduin. They called out ideas, ways to defend the area, to each other. Faramir and Damrod were unsure what to make of it; they'd never seen such a determinedly proactive, or extremely cooperative, bunch of rangers. _These men could simply hide behind the stone around them_ , thought the Steward-son, _yet they aim to fashion their own system of defense..._

"Per'aps we could congr'agate an' move some of these 'ere rocks," declared Hallam, patting his calloused hands against one of the large chunks of rubble. "It'd be tricky, mind you, but I bel'eve it could b' done."

"Moving rocks is one matter, Hallam, but making certain they will stay is another matter entirely," cautioned Walda, his charcoal rushing over a sheet of parchment. "I'm drafting out where we could assemble our defenses, and from where we could procure the resources. Some of these boulders around here look like proper wall material."

Istuion wandered over to his recorder and speaker of tongues. "What could we use to cement them in place? I'm sure your urges to have organization will ensure the perfection of the construct, but to further ensure their solidity, I think we will need some kind of clay or natural cement."

Walda pursed his lips in thought, his charcoal stick pausing in motion. "I am no builder or official architect, despite the fact I am drafting a plan so easily, but I believe a large amount of clay, thick stalk hay, and a generous amount of water will create a general cement-able result."

The young captain frowned, shaking his head. "No, that won't stand up. Come rain or damp conditions, that flimsy recipe will be obsolete. It was wrong of me to mention clay. I am not a builder either, but limestone, gravel, water, thick mud, and sand makes a tougher sealant than hay and watered clay mixed together. That recipe of yours only works in dry plains or deserts that don't receive rain very often."

"You cannot blame me for depending on the information the Easterlings imparted."

"No, but I can correct you. Since, you know, I'm your captain and all."

Hallam sighed dramatically, flopping his body over a boulder. "Me t'inks y'u all are overthinkin' this too much an' blabbin' too much."

"We are rangers, Hallam," spoke Ohtar, apparently the voice of reason. "A bow comes more naturally to us of Southwest Ithilien than close combat, and you very well know that. It is not to say we cannot cut any opponent down with a dagger or sword, but it is what we are the most skilled in. You are the best shot out of all the garrison; you alone depend more on a ranged weapon than a sword in close-quarters. A well-constructed defense will ensure our bows will not be hindered by melee attack."

"If anything," Walda interjected, "Some of the boulders in the area are too heavy and too large to shift after being moved. We can just forgo the cement-"

"The knowledge that I have been listening to you all debate over defenses for a riverbank leaves me to hope that is all you rangers will be doing," commented Damrod. "The Captain-General will not find your independent decisions very amusing. You were simply ordered to come to Osgiliath. Faramir has ordered you to settle here; that is all."

Istuion looked over at him, "Oh, you're still here? You've been so quiet, Sir River Dam, I had not known."

Hallam, from his place on a nearby boulder, snickered out a muffled guffaw. Ohtar smirked. Walda sighed. Any of the rangers wandering close to them forced themselves not to show reaction.

Damrod glowered at the youth. "Your jests are poor."

"But it riled you nonetheless, eh?"

Faramir quickly stepped in. It felt like he was minding a bunch of bickering children. "Istuion, why do you wish to build a defense along the shore when there are already places for defense?"

"You mean those randomized rock formations clumped around the half-destroyed buildings, sir?" he responded, waving his arm vaguely towards the dilapidated structures rising up from the debris. "Sure, it's a logical and simple resolution, but that will not stop a mob of orcs from attempting to sneak across the river. The squadron before us died using that strategy, yes? Well, when a strategy fails, sir, I believe it's a logical deduction for a captain to change his tactic. If we set up a deterrent, one that can halt the progress of the sneaky orcs long enough for us to shoot them numb, then I think the problem of the orcs is solved."

The Steward-son slowly exhaled. In a day, Captain Istuion already left an impression on him. For a man so young, the youth had a quick mind that did not falter when faced with obstacles. Building deterrents? Changing tactics? Working _with_ his subordinates to develop a plan? Faramir could see why he earned his rank. And now? The captain-commander could envision how much Boromir would like him. His brother was never one to hesitate; he valued that in his captains and advisors.

"You will have to discuss this with the Captain-General," the Steward-son said at last.

"So tomorrow?" assumed Istuion.

Faramir nodded. "Tomorrow."

The young captain smirked, clapping his hands. " _Fantastic!_ I'm off to read the rest of my book then." Istuion turned to Ohtar, "Tell the men that they may set up shop; the 'line dance' is probably a good choice for this stationing. When you come back, Hallam will most likely have our fire going."

Ohtar smiled, bowing his head. "Do make sure Walda does not burn the rations."

The youth chuckled, while their chronicler huffed at the jest. "Don't worry, Ohtar," said Istuion, "He won't even touch the food. Hallam will make sure of that."

"Dam' righ' I won't," the archer answered gruffly from his boulder. Ohtar walked off, bellowing out orders and sending the rangers scrambling to find burnable materials or a place to nestle their equines for the night. Istuion watched for a few moments, nodding to himself, before turning away.

The book _―_ which was _indeed_ bound with some type of parchment _―_ was eradicated from the young man's jerkin. In seconds it was open to a page bookmarked with a ratty bit of twine, and Istuion had seated himself on a decently-sized, decapitated stone head. His braid, when he sat, brushed his thighs. Hallam groaned at the sight, knowing exactly what that meant, sluggishly sliding off his high perch and moving to his horse. The archer rooted around in his pack, tossing dry wads of tinder and willow branches on the ground. His captain ignored him. Faramir, unsure what else to do but curious about the strange book Istuion was reading, wandered over to the captain. Damrod didn't follow, choosing to place himself atop the boulder Hallam had vacated.

"Won't your brother come looking for you, sir?" Istuion spoke absently, his murky eyes lazily scanning the pages in front of him.

The captain-commander took a seat beside the youth. "Most assuredly. It's the unspoken role as the elder sibling to worry about the younger one."

The bookmark twine was stuffed back into the book, and Istuion looked up. "Let me rephrase: I thought, once you were done leading us here to the river's shore, you'd move on to check the rest of your men."

"Your garrison is top priority. Most of the rangers are watching the old roads through Ithilien, many of which that lead close to the mountains of shadow towards the deeper parts of Northern Ithilien. They harass Easterlings who manage to sneak into Ithilien or orcs who come from the mountains themselves. This squadron had to be taken to Pelargir before it followed the main road towards here, correct?"

"Yes," confirmed Istuion. "It was dangerous to come here any other way. And, as we both know, the eastern banks of Osgiliath are taken by the Enemy."

"Thus your presence here, as you are to help hold the last bank Gondor still has."

The young captain stared at the man for a few moments, then went abruptly deadpan. "Sir, you just wanted to know what I'm reading."

"...Am I that obvious?"

"Verily, sir; verily. As for what I'm reading," spoke Istuion, holding the deep indigo book up for Faramir to see, "It's not a book you'd readily know."

"That I can agree with. The written language on its front is unknown to me."

"I would be extremely surprised if you did know," commented the young man. "It's from a place extremely far over the sea. Their literature is quite good, and I never really tire of it."

"You can read it?"

"I can. My caretaker, the one with a fondness for the fair languages, is a scholar from Lebennin. The bay city is a boat ride away from our town, and he had a love for exotic written works. The merchants of Pelargir always had something new from some sea trader lurking the docks, and my caretaker couldn't help himself." Not that sh _―_ _ahem, he_ _―_ was going to tell him the real truth of how he knows the language or why he actually had these foreign books. He did really like reading, though."

"So, in turn, you gained an appetite for knowledge."

Istuion laughed outright. "Ha-ha, oh! I already was hungry for books. The fact the man who took me in was a scholar made the deal all the more sweet. Anyway, this book here is _Siddhartha_ by _Hermann Hesse_. It's a sort of tale involving the ideas of spiritual journeys and self-discovery. The main character is a man named _Siddhartha_ , which is where the title of the book came from. It's sort of hard to explain the story, but it's full of good life lessons and quotes."

"Such as?"

"Well _―"_

"Oh, by God, you shouldn't 'ave said that," remarked Hallam, who had managed to get a fire going to slowly simmer their rations in a cast-iron skillet. "Capp'n can go on fer' hours about his readin' and whatn'ot."

"Not my fault you're a grumpy old miser at your prime age. Go back to skiving around in your boat between Pelargir and that shanty town on the coast like the bum you are," sassed Istuion.

"Captain, please," spoke Walda, looking up from his parchment. "You do not need to stir Hallam into yet another tantrum."

"So his wit runs off with him often?" asked Faramir.

"Probably all too much, I am sure," added Damrod.

"What sort of subordinates and commander do I have?!" cried Istuion.

"Ones that seem to keep you on your guard, my friend."

"Ohtar!" The youth yelled in relief, "The one man who will never drive me to madness."

"He's jus' bootlickin' ya," said Hellam with a grumble, moving the skillet over the fire.

"Hallam, mind your words!" admonished Walda.

"Say that t' someone o' cares, ya' scribblin' fail'ur of a cook!"

"Hallam, by God!" yelled Istuion, "Can you ever bother to keep your mouth shut?!"

"Captain, I think the rations in the skillet are burning _―_ "

"GOD DAMMIT T'ALL, YOU MISFIT ITHILIEN BOWMEN! NONE OF YOU FOOLS CAN COOK FOR YOUR LIFE! _―_ "

" _―_ I can, actually, Captain _―_ "

" _―_ EXCEPT OHTAR, BECAUSE HE SEEMS LIKE THE ONLY COMPETENT ONE IN THIS GOD-FORSAKEN GROUP!"

 _These are going to be men who I will always remember_ , Faramir thought with a smile, watching them squabble heatedly over their burnt food, _and Boromir will surely like them as well._


	2. Nancy Drew by Carolyn Keene

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Any excerpts or passages from mentioned books are not mine in any way, shape, or form. That means I own nothing of the Nancy Drew series, or anything pertaining to Carolyn Keene in this chapter. I only quote from the books because I am using them for plot and as a way to speed up time. For those who wonder why I say "God" instead of "Eru," it's due to language translations, AKA Westron-to-English. Eru is technically the overlording god of Middle Earth, and the Valar the figurative guardians/angels. Sorry if it seemed a bit religious for a few of you.

Thank you, those slim few readers who reviewed! Read and please do review again! Please! I love novel-long reviews! BRING IT ON!

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 **Chapter Two:** _ **Nancy Drew and the Ivory Charm**_ **by Carolyn Keene**

* * *

 _3018th Year of the Third Age; Osgiliath, early spring..._

* * *

Istuion had trained hersel _―err, himself―_ to wake up at dawn. After around nine years of having to wake up right when the sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon, it wasn't hard to achieve. But, waking up earlier than that? That was suicide waiting to happen. If anyone dared to do so, he'd punt them in the family jewels faster than a jackrabbit on the run from a ravenous fox. Ohtar, son of Erland, experienced such an event first hand on more than one urgent occasion. Hallam had only once; he had quickly learned never to trifle with the captain and simply left it to Ohtar. Walda, unfortunately, had suffered the experience three times.

So, it seemed only fair that Faramir, son of the Steward Denethor, brother of Lord Boromir, Captain-Commander of the Ithilien rangers, and the current commanding officer of Captain Istuion, son of none, to suffer the violent experience. He, being the kind-hearted man he was, thought it would be wise to show the young captain where the dilapidated officers' building was, where the meetings would take place. It wouldn't do to have Istuion wandering around aimlessly, and knowing how soldiers treated their younger comrades, the explosive temper the youth had briefly displayed last night would definitely land him in trouble.

Making his way through the ruin city towards the river's shore, Faramir spotted the men of Istuion's garrison on watch. What the young captain had called 'the dance line' had in actuality been a camping formation that placed his subordinates' bonfire groupings in a perfect line along the riverbank. A man from each bonfire stood tall, bow drawn and hood pulled overhead to guard their slumbering group. As Faramir passed, a few nodded to him silently in acknowledgement. When he reached Istuion's camp, Hallam, Walda, and the captain himself were sound asleep, huddled into little gaps between the stone debris. Ohtar quietly stood watch, holding his large bow casually at the waist. The Steward-son was thankful none of the Poros rangers decided to redress themselves in their eastern garb, though Ohtar's tattoos would be visible to any who bothered to look and many of the garrison didn't bother to slip off their brilliant gold earrings and rings.

"Good morn, Lord Faramir," greeted the tall bearded man, bowing his head slightly. The Steward-son liked the burly fellow; he was polite and well-mannered, looking out for his captain and carrying out his duties loyally.

"Good morn," Faramir returned earnestly. "I am here to show Istuion where the meeting amongst the captains is being held."

"As you can see," Ohtar said pleasantly, nodding his head to where the young man was huddled asleep, "The Captain is not awake. I advise you not to wake him, for he only rises at the break of dawn. No later, no earlier."

Faramir frowned. "The meeting _begins_ at dawn. Surely he will understand if I wake him now."

Ohtar chuckled at the Steward-son, a knowing look in his eyes. "I welcome you to try, but know that I advised you not to wake him before dawn." The man then turned away, returning his gaze to the river just as calmly as he had taken it away.

Faramir looked at Istuion's second in brief bewilderment. _What did he mean by any of it?_

The captain-commander didn't dwell on it for long, moving over to the ranger captain wedged at an angle between a decapitated stone head and a fractured slab of stone wall. The son of none appeared peaceful in his slumber, like many do, his effeminate youth seeming more prominent than before. His thin yet very long braid slithered down his slim torso, the metal beads shining in the scattered rays of morning light as its end pooled about his stomach and upper thighs. Faramir's bewilderment sprung back. _No_ , he thought sharply. _I am not that sort of man, and I will not entertain such fantasies with a youth of all things!_ The faintest of blushes tinted his cheeks, out of sheer embarrassment.

Reaching out a tentative hand, Faramir shook Istuion's shoulder. "Captain Istuion…" he whispered. The man shook the younger's shoulder again, more insistent.

An angry growl and a flying kick was all the warning the Steward-son got before he found himself propelled into the shallows of the Anduin. Walda and Hallam immediately startled awake, and so did most of Istuion's squadron. Ohtar gave a deep, throaty chuckle.

" _Who in the name of Jesus H. Christ has the fucking gall to wake me up?! Huh?! Who the fuck is it?!_ " Istuion was yelling as Faramir stumbled his way out of the river. The language he was screaming in was not at all Westron, though the phonetics sounded vaguely similar. The Steward-son's overwhelming bewilderment and surprise ridded his mind completely of any compromising thoughts that had briefly graced his brain.

Hallam, after glancing between the captain-commander and his captain, soon joined Ohtar in laughter. "Capp'n, ye' punted tha' Steward's youngest into Anduin!" Chuckles from the rest of the garrison could be heard joining him.

Walda smirked, but his eyes were concerned. "Oh lord…"

Faramir, drenched from head to toe in the less-than-clean water of the river shallows, was still stuck in a state of surprise. How did he manage to fly out that far? His grey eyes traced the imaginary trajectory between where Istuion sat yelling and the river he had landed in. He shook himself of the collecting drips, grabbing his cloak with as much dignity as he could muster and wringing it out. He pried his boots off, one by one, pouring out the sneaky water hiding at the toe of the shoes before slipping them back on. Istuion's fury-fueled ranting trailed off upon noticing the sopping wet captain-commander, hazel eyes locked on the man who was calmly unfastening his quality leather jerkin to wring out his linen undershirt. To say he was mildly dumbstruck at the transparency of said wet undershirt and the starkly defined lines of his commander's torso would be an understatement.

 _Self-control does not exist when this kind of shit happens_ , he thought, unable to tear his gaze away. It was ridiculous it was happening; the youth felt extremely uncomfortable at the fact he was briefly entertaining very untimely thoughts towards his own commander. _This is just fucked up_. Unconsciously, Istuion tugged at his jerkin, feeling her carefully bound breasts shifting slightly underneath. Wait, I mean _his_. Yeah, that makes sense, right? Right.

Hallam and Ohtar noticed the reaction of their captain, guffawing like a pair of men amused at an inside joke. It was enough to draw Istuion's eyes away, which narrowed in annoyance at the sight of his essentially-giggling subordinates.

"Oh, put a cork in it, you two."

"Sorry, Capp'n," spoke Hallam, finally calming down. "But seein' the Captain-General's brother crash inta' the Anduin because 'e tried to wake ya' up befur' dawn? It's nearly worth it's weight n' gold."

Istuion looked up to the metaphorical sky, since their camp was oriented underneath an overhang created by a half-crumbled second floor of a three-story stone ruin. "Why, God, must I be forsaken and left with subordinates like these chuckleheads?"

Ohtar smiled at his captain, putting away his bow and offering the youth a hand. He took it, coming to a stand and walking over towards Faramir. He forced himself not to stare anywhere at the man's lean musculature or how attractive it was to see it all accentuated by wet linen. _Damn attractive men, the chain of command, and my unbalanced hormones._

"I'm extremely sorry, Commander. I don't react very well when I'm roused before the light of dawn," apologized Istuion.

The Steward-son took it in stride, like the truly remarkable man he was, wringing out the last of his linen tunic and adorning the leather jerkin over himself. He systematically tied it in place along his sides, the silver-embossed Tree of Gondor prominent on the man's chest once again.

"It is fine, Istuion. I'll now know to have one of your men try to rouse you instead, or simply not rouse you at all," he answered wryly.

The young captain smirked, thankful that case of ridiculousness was closed. "Indeed. What has brought you here so early in the morn, sir?"

"A meeting amongst the captains and my brother begins at dawn today. I assumed you would like to know where it is, and to propose your defense measures."

Istuion's expression brightened. "Ah, that I would! Though, I'm a bit afraid of what your lord brother will think of me after he learns I kicked you into the Anduin."

"He will either laugh in good humor or berate you like a child."

The youth groaned. "Oh, lovely… I should probably bring a book or something."

Faramir chuckled, unable to stop himself. "A book? Captain Istuion, just how many books do you have on your person?" He followed after the young man, who had wandered over to his horse.

"On my person? One, which is _Siddhartha_. But in my saddlebags? Too many to count, sir," responded Istuion, rifling through the saddlebags in question, "There's a reason I have canvas sacks instead of leather constructs. Couldn't store nearly as many books as you can with stretchy canvas."

That answered the question of why the young man's saddlebags appeared prone to bursting at any moment.

"But, seeing as I have finished _Siddhartha_ for a third time, I'm going to shuffle through said saddlebags for something else to visually consume," finished Istuion, patting the neck of his mare absently for a moment before continuing to sift through the bulging contents.

"Hmm… I'm not in a proper mood to read any _Mary Renault_ , or _Frank Herbert_ … perhaps something light…" murmured the young captain. Flashes of book covers could be seen, until finally Istuion found what he wanted. "Ah-ha! This'll do. It's the only one of its series I have."

"And what is it?" wondered Faramir.

Pulling the thin but hardbound book out and closing the saddlebags, Istuion held it out for his commander. "It's a children's book collection about a young girl named _Nancy Drew_. This is the thirteenth in the series, _Nancy Drew and the Ivory Charm_ , by a man who used the pen name _Carolyn Keene_. After about book number three, the stories were ridiculously repetitive. But it's a charming series of tales, anyway."

The Captain-Commander took the book proffered to him, examining the book cover curiously. All of the books he'd seen in Istuion's possession so far were from that foreign place over the sea, with vibrant covers and alien words. Part of Faramir wondered if the young captain carried any books from Gondor or Rohan, or that he only had foreign written works. The youth was so strange, with his unwavering love for knowledge and his seemingly specific taste in obscure tales. What else was there to learn about this fatherless young man? Faramir stared a bit longer at the book in his hands, with its canary yellow body color and green-themed front. He handed it back to Istuion, who stuffed the book in question away under his jerkin with practiced ease.

"We should leave now for the captain's meeting, or the both of us shall be late," said the Steward-son.

"Lead on then," answered Istuion, throwing a hand in the direction towards the deeper parts of the ruin city, "Ohtar and the rest of the men know what to do in my absence."

The captain's second bowed his head, turning away from the two officers to swiftly kick Hallam in the ribs. A rasping growl emerged from the loudmouth's nook in the rubble. Faramir hesitated in leaving that instant, mildly interested in knowing what the large man was doing with Hallam.

"By Tulkas' fists, Ohtar! Dun' go about puntin' me inna' gut!"

"The captain has to attend a meeting of the officers. It is time for you to stay awake," the second said simply.

"Damn that! I ain't stayin' a'wake at this bloomin' hour! Git' Walda up er' somethin,' leave me to go ba'k to sleep 'n peace!"

"No need," muttered the scribe, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he sat up from his own place around the fire pit.

Istuion chuckled, patting Faramir on the back. "See? They'll be fine. Hallam just grumbles and Walda usually wakes up as a passing consequence. Lead on, Captain-Commander."

Together, the two officers made their way up the slope of the shore, stepping into the ruin city with quiet feet. Soldiers lined the walls, resting their heads atop one another's shoulders as the slept sitting up. Some curled into little niches like Istuion had earlier, an odd piece of armor left at their feet or set aside for the night. They spotted a few standing sentries, holding slow-burning torches in the dull light of the morning, bowing their heads in greeting to the Steward-son. Intermittently, Istuion found himself walking across warped planks placed over large reservoirs of water that was a result of the Anduin overflowing. _This place is even flooded out here. How quaint_ , the young captain thought sarcastically.

"The captains meet in there," Faramir informed, pointing towards the most intact but unimpressive building in the entirety of Osgiliath up ahead. "And it is where my brother and myself sleep, if you ever need to speak to us."

Istuion blinked. It was made of stone, much like everything else in Osgiliath, but someone had managed to salvage what remained of its ceramic tile roof and mend it. Its sides displayed cracks and shallow fractures in the granite it had been crafted from, but in all, the small building was perfectly fine. Weathered by the natural elements and a long lapse in time, but fine. Two horses stood tied up to a remnant of a wood fence (Read: a crooked, nailed-up assembly of termite-eaten wood that precariously leaned towards the stone building), and there were only two windows built into the entire structure. Faramir paused by the horses, patting the lightest of the pair fondly. It huffed at him.

"This is, by far, the most unobtrusive building I've seen yet in Osgiliath," Istuion commented. "You're lucky it's as intact as it is. Everything else in this overgrown pile of ruins is just unstable rock and flooded debris."

"The roof had to be fixed, but fortunately there were enough tiles lying about in the rubble to use," answered Faramir. "Let us go inside, I am sure my brother is waiting."

The pair wandered around the building, locating a door that matched the wood fence in its termite-eaten status. Faramir politely knocked, and a set of heavy footsteps could be heard moving to answer. In seconds, the door flew open.

"Brother!" cried the tall, broad-shouldered man in the doorway. His trademark strawberry blonde hair and grey eyes immediately proved it was Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor and the eldest son of Denethor. He moved to hug his younger sibling, who eagerly accepted the gesture. Istuion didn't manage to hold back the fond smirk that played at his lips at the sight.

"Good morn, brother," spoke Faramir, "I hope we are not late to the meeting."

Boromir glanced between his little brother and Istuion, friendly but blatantly curious. "No. In fact, you are early; we are waiting for two more captains. Who is this beside you?"

The young captain bowed. "Istuion, son of none. I'm captain of the squadron relocated here from the Poros outpost, sir."

The elder Steward-son nodded to him, grey eyes looking the young and effeminate Istuion up and down. His gaze briefly rested on the thin braid tied off with gold and painted beads resting just below his ribcage, but not long. "It is good to finally meet the captain of that garrison. From where do you hail? Ithilien, I assume?"

 _That was a bit rude of him, to be so assumptious._ Istuion maintained a calm manner. "Lebennin actually, sir. I come from a town by the Sirith River, a boat ride from Pelargir."

"The Lebennin fief? That is a good ride from Minas Tirith, captain. A bit young for your station as well."

"Brother," reprimanded Faramir, giving his elder sibling a meaningful look. "He is slightly older than we were when father had us join the men in the barracks."

"That does not mean he has the experience we did then, little brother," he retorted.

"I believe Istuion will surprise you, Boromir. May we come in?"

Istuion had to admit it: Faramir, he could tell in those slim moments of watching them, totally knew how to handle his elder brother. The two siblings possessed an interesting dynamic, one that spoke of years sharing space and also being at each other's throats. Not that it completely surprised Istuion; most boys fought at least once in their lives. Not that she ever did with her sister, they'd always had gotten along just fine... Err, I mean, _he_. And there is no sister. Yeah. Just some orphan kid taken in by a scholar from Lebennin. No siblings, not female… Good? Good.

Boromir stepped away from the threshold, and Faramir gestured inside. "Come, Istuion, I can introduce you to the other captains."

Awkwardly, the youth shuffled in. The interior was mildly cramped, offering a limited amount of space to maneuver in. It was basically laughable that grown men used the place repeatedly as a meeting place that would bring in more grown men; how did they all manage to fit? Shoved to one shadowed wall, a rickety-looking cot with horribly tossed blankets sat silently. There were stains on the hem of the blankets, a few growing holes, and places where moths tried to eat at them. To the right of the bed, a large fireplace (Read: A pony-sized space framed by rough stone and a shallow pit on the bottom for embers) heated the building. Farther to the right, yet another poorly kept cot with a contrasting tidiness in the blanket department sat under one of the two small windows on the stone building. In the center of the room, leaving a tight place on either side to walk by, a large table stood covered in papers. Maps, stacks of parchment, reports, an abused inkwell, a scattered collection of goose-feather quills, and a small serving of stale ration bread wrapped in linen took up the entire surface. Istuion felt uncomfortable and packed in already. There was a chair in the northwestern corner of the pint-sized building, and the young captain wisely decided that was where he would sit for the entirety of the meeting unless spoken to.

Of course, that didn't happen immediately.

"Who is this? Boromir, we have no time for children."

A burly fellow, about the size and build of Ohtar, stared down at Istuion with fierce blue eyes. There was no friendliness in the blue depths, or an obvious sense of patience. They glinted with cunning, and Istuion knew he wanted nothing to do with that mammoth of a person. His hair was a color scale of black to pale grey, as was his facial hair. If the young captain had to pick an animal the fellow was comparable to, it would be the wolf from Red Riding Hood; sly, smart, and reasonably dangerous. Another man, leaner but growing an impressive goatee, rolled his generic grey eyes from across the table. He was much younger than the mammoth, and didn't appear as if he could even force himself to be devious.

"No child from eastern Gondor, anyway," he spoke, no tone of condescension turning his statement sour; it was a plain statement filled with innocent interest and awe. "The boy's eyes are like the sea, the mountains, and the forest haphazardly thrown together."

His companion, who stood to the goatee man's left, nodded. He was mildly rugged in looks, possessing the stereotypical Gondorian grey eyes, but a scar cut deep across his stubbled chin and his hair was an adequate simulation of woven gold.

"The world itself is trapped in that lad's eyes, no mistake," he said, equally musing.

Deciding that polite and calm was probably better than being annoyed at the insulting comment made by the mammoth man and saying something he shouldn't, Istuion bowed slightly to the strangers. "I am Istuion, son of none. I'm captain of the garrison relocated here from the Poros outpost." The young captain raised himself back to a plain stance. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The fellow with the goatee smiled warmly, bowing his head briefly in greeting. "Indeed a pleasure, Istuion. Many of us were curious as to who the captain of that small battalion was. I am Amras, son of Baranthror."

"And I am Gárwine, son of Fram."

 _I like these guys, at least._ Istuion smirked, addressing Gárwine. "Your father was from Rohan, I take it?"

The man seemed to perk up in delight that the youth had commented on his name. "Why, yes! My mother lived in Rohan for a time, and my father had been a rider of the Mark. She lives in Minas Tirith with my brother."

 _Good to know that the Rohirric gold hair is a dominant gene when compared to the Gondorian black. It's almost ironic, in some weird sort of way_ , Istuion thought amusedly. He was just thankful Iorlas had taught him something about name origins during his years in Lebennin.

"I hail from the Lebennin fiefdom, and my caretaker is a scholar," Istuion offered in return.

"Indeed?" Amras spoke up, "I have a distant cousin from Lossarnach; he's a merchant who often makes his rounds through Lebennin."

"Has he ever visited any river towns along the Sirith? If so, he has most likely spent time in my hometown. We have merchants pass through often."

"Have you met one named Cirion?"

"Yes! He sells books as well as exotic wares, correct?"

"Indeed! My, you have met my cousin-!"

"-If you are done chattering like cookery women, I would like to get this meeting over with."

The three of them turned to the mammoth of a man, who met eyes with Istuion. "I am Ranulf, boy, son of Tor. I hope you do not think you will blabber with me like you do with them, for I will not allow you even the chance."

Istuion pursed his lips. "I'm sorry that the complexities of verbal introductions do not appease you, Ranulf. I wasn't going to bother with speaking to you anyway, but if you insist on moving this along… Well, I believe that chair in the corner looks comfortable enough."

No retort or action followed. Confident that he sassed the son of Tor enough for the rest of the meeting, Istuion calmly strolled to the northwestern corner of the stone building. He casually sat himself down, hearing the chair briefly creak under his weight before procuring _Nancy Drew and the Ivory Charm_ from his jerkin. The Steward-sons, who had patiently watched the interactions between the captains, chose that moment to begin the meeting early.

"Though Hirgon and Arahad are not here yet, I believe we can begin discussing any problems that may have arisen amongst you in the recent weeks," Faramir began, walking towards the table.

Ranulf moved forward in response, obviously aiming to speak first. "While you were dealing with the Steward's recent orders involving the relocation of the rangers stationed at the Poros outpost," he pointedly glanced at Istuion's oblivious figure in the corner, "Lord Boromir and the rest of us had been speaking of the recent orc activity…"

It was right around that point that Istuion stopped trying to listen in while reading. Honestly, Ranulf had made a horrible impression, and the youth wanted to interact with the mammoth as little as possible. It was obvious they were going to explain their previous group chat about the orcs, as well as the massacre of the shoreline garrison Istuion's short-numbered battalion just recently replaced.

Yes, the orcs managed to be sneaky enough to miraculously make it over the deep Anduin to slaughter all those men.

Yes, it is ridiculous the orcs managed that feat.

Orcs weren't exactly discreet creatures, and their bloodlust and inherent hunger for man flesh left them feral and wildly uncoordinated. None of the information was new; what was to be drawn from that event was that defenses needed to be improved and the mode of transportation for the enemy had to be destroyed or thwarted in some way. The men were surely going to spend hours deliberating amongst themselves to even reach that train of thought, and Istuion found that truth depressing. If he had taken as long as the captains were in making decisions during his time serving at the crossings of Poros, the youth would be long dead. _Faramir is smart enough to reach that conclusion_ , the young captain thought, _but the poor guy probably has to try and maneuver the meeting in that direction to even get somewhere_.

But again, Istuion stopped trying to pay attention while being preoccupied with his light reading.

 **...NANCY sat in her father's law office, waiting for him to finish a long-distance call.**

 **As he cradled the telephone, she said, "What's up, Dad? Another mystery?"**

 **Mr. Drew nodded and smiled. "It concerns a member of a wild-animal show."**

" **Man or beast?" his eighteen-year-old daughter teased, her blue eyes twinkling.**

" **Maybe both," the tall, handsome lawyer replied. "That's for you to find out."**

By God, Istuion really hated Nancy Drew. As a kid, sh _―eh, he―_ sort of liked the books. But as an young adult, reading the slow dialogue and remedial descriptions? It was drier than the roaring fire heating the building he was sitting in. And why does a daughter of a law student hunt for mysteries through her father? Wasn't there client confidentiality? _What the hell, Mr. Drew, the apparently attractive father of a teenager fresh out of high school._

"Have any of the rangers watching the old roads through Ithilien reported any orc activity? Perhaps it is the beasts that are showing themselves more instead of the Easterlings…"

Aaaand the captains were still debating the plausibility and range of active orc bands. The futility of even possibly mentioning the idea of adding defenses on the shoreline was evident. Istuion sighed faintly, flipping a few pages and skipping ahead. Maybe the book would be better further in. That's what he remembered.

 **...By this time a boy who looked like a native of India had rushed up. He stood alongside the elephant and spoke softly to him in words his listeners did not understand.**

" ** _Shant ho jao dost!_** " **Rishi said. ("Be calm, friend!")**

" **I guess," said George, "he's talking Hindi."**

 **Just then the man who had been running after the boy and the elephant dashed up. He spoke angrily to them and flourished the whip but did not strike either the boy or the beast. The young helper cringed, however.**

The basic use of English was not generating very much entertainment a few pages in. Istuion had simply lost his ability to read easier literature involving simple plots like what one would find in Nancy Drew. Most of the books and written works of Middle-Earth were heavy in language; essentially, long-winded but comparable to old Medieval epics. It was easier to read novels like _The Agony and the Ecstasy_ or _War and Peace_ than _Junie B. Jones_ or _Magic Treehouse_. Books for younger readers back on Earth _―Err, from over the sea―_ were just too simple to be enjoyed by Istuion anymore, it seemed. He hadn't bothered trying before, but now he knew.

Closing the colorful book and stuffing it back under his jerkin, Istuion languidly stood up.

"Why has the Steward relocated these rangers from the crossings of Poros? The garrison is made from southwestern folk of Ithilien, who allow anyone who sails into their docks to trade! They have not suffered as the rest of the people of Ithilien have, escaping orc raids and taking refuge in the farther fiefs," ranted Ranulf.

 _Why am I not surprised that the man is trying to put my garrison in a bad light?_ Istuion strode forward, making a show of shifting his cloak and displaying his bastard sword on his hip. Barely a hint of silver, of ivory-handled daggers, could be seen. Such stupid displays, he had learned from a passing wanderer through his river town, were a good way to convey an unspoken threat or challenge. _Like a dick contest, except with oversized forged knives and an excessive amount of eye contact._

"I was under the impression, upon arriving here from my former post, that these meetings were where we would collectively address any concerns amongst the officers and formulate plans to regain the eastern banks of Osgiliath," Istuion said loudly. "Not that we could convey our biased opinions of one another."

Ranulf scowled. "As if a boy has a place here, amongst captains who have served Gondor longer than he has been in this world."

The youth raised a brow, "Oh? I had thought a boy became a man when he reached the age of twenty years. I'm twenty and seven years of age, Ranulf. I have served Gondor for three years, and diligently defended the Poros outpost from Haradrim for all that time. I may not be as aged as yourself, but I have served my kingdom and will continue to do so."

Istuion turned from the sight of the fuming captain, addressing the rest of the men gathered around the table. He ignored the slightly shocked look of Faramir, who was left speechless from the youth's sharp tongue and the admittance of his age. _He is far older than I thought_ , the Steward-son realized in bewilderment.

"The orcs are aiming to claim the entirety of Osgiliath. You know and I know that if this ruin city is lost, Minas Tirith will be endangered beyond hope of relief. Rohan has been in decline since their war with the Dunlendings, and calling for aid is not something the Steward will turn to unless it is a desperate need. We are Gondor, we have pride," Istuion explained.

"So, since Mordor aims to gain a foothold in the metaphorical threshold, the orcs must have adapted as we have stayed idly in place to hold what we have," the youth stated without any doubt clouding his voice. "It is true that orcs of the Deceiver cannot walk in the light of the day, but rumors from passing wanderers and the hints from the stray Haradrim talk of Uruks. They can move in sunlight, though they do not desire to, and they are larger than the average orc. Maybe this is not what killed the garrison who had protected the shoreline, but all rumors hold a grain of truth.

"I attended this meeting today to ask permission to build defenses on the shore. The enemy obviously has found a way to cross the deep Anduin, and the result proved that a few outcroppings of debris for defense had not saved the garrison who had formerly protected the shoreline. My men can move the boulders and debris, create a deterrent against boats or any other manner of river transport. Then, we can investigate how the enemy has managed to cross the river, checking up and down the shoreline, to rightly destroy that avenue of travel. And, if there are any orcs on our side, we shall swiftly crush their attempt at gaining a foothold on this bank."

The men, all five of them, stared blankly. It looked, from the strangely twisted expressions on their faces, they were all trying to process why Istuion seemed to have such a bluntly-put but wide insight. Perhaps the wom _―err, man―_ may have overstepped himself when it came to what he knew. Having read all the _Lord of the Rings_ books repeatedly… Wait, I mean, _having read the history books in Iorlas' library and heard tales from the elder folk in his river town_ , the young captain knew more than the normal Gondorian citizen, let alone a well-read nobleman. Istuion hoped it didn't greatly alter anything timeline wise, or something like that. Not that he would know anything about the future or the idea of the Multiverse Theory. Right? Right.

Eventually, Faramir found his voice. "I will endorse this decision, though I recommend we give you five soldiers to make your garrison fifty strong," he stated, though his words came out awkwardly.

Boromir was still staring, studying the young captain more than he had initially. He was almost considering, as if he had found something entirely new and extremely useful. A smirk slowly crept onto his face, and he nodded to the youth approvingly.

"I too endorse this decision, and agree with my brother. Your garrison is slightly undermanned, and with your post being the riverbank, you will need every man possible." His smile widened slightly, "It is refreshing to know there is a man who will speak to me without restraint; it is better than dealing with the fussy nobles of Gondor's court."

Istuion was too busy mentally thanking God for not having any negative reactions from the Captain-General or the other captains. Though, Ranulf looked less than pleased. _Now for a swift exit and a sense of false suave to get out of this meeting!_

"Thank you, sir," said the youth. "If you would excuse me, I would like to tell my men about these developments."

The elder Steward-son bowed his head briefly, offering a smile that was most likely given to engender an interest in friendship in Istuion. "You may."

"Thank you, sir," he repeated.

Quickly, as swift as he could without looking like he was bolting out of the building in fear or discomfort, the young captain dashed out the door. They gazed after him, most in amusement. Faramir frowned slightly, brows furrowed. Ranulf glared at the ajar door, muttering under his breath.

Boromir simply laughed. "I like this young captain; he has spirit."

Ranulf's frown could not have sunk deeper.

* * *

"I am never attending another one of those damned meetings again."

"You surely do not mean that, Captain," spoke Walda, looking up from his ever-present mess of papers with a pleading expression. "We are newcomers to this station as it is! If you do not represent yourself well to the older and more experienced captains, we will surely be sent to one of the old roads in northeastern Ithilien."

"As if Capp'n could fail ta' charm them inna' likin' him within tha' first breath," said Hallam, shoving a large piece of driftwood underneath a nearby boulder. His attempts at dislodging it were pitiful.

"Hallam, by God, do bother to keep your mouth shut," sighed Istuion, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

"It cannot have gone so horribly, Captain, if you returned as intact as you have," mentioned Ohtar, as he passed by with his arms full of broken rock.

"As if, son of Erland!" cried the youth, nearly splashing the cement mixture he was stirring with a half-rotten tree limb he found floating in the swallows of the Anduin. "You weren't there! This captain, Ranulf, son of Tor, was more akin to a wolf than a man. He called me a child, tried to slander this garrison with his biased words, and repeatedly told me, both obviously and subtly, that I did not belong at the meeting."

"A son of Tor? Is not Tor a noble of Minas Tirith?" Walda pondered openly.

"I've 'eard from tha' soldiers neighborin' our station tha' is true. I've also been hearin' that he's a right ass, and a retired capp'n of Gondor," commented Hallam.

"Why am I not surprised," mumbled Istuion. He awkwardly realized the man probably hated him more for not saying 'Lord' before his name. The name came from a notable class, apparently. Calling someone by their title was oftentimes hard to remember.

"What of the other captains?" asked Ohtar.

"Well, there was Amras, son of Baranthror. His parents must be nobles as well, because not just anybody knows Sindarin. He didn't seem to be able to say one cruel thing. Two captains, Hirgon and Arahad, didn't appear. They may have after I left, but I don't know. Then, there was Gárwine, son of Fram. His father was Rohirric, and his name gave it away. He was amiable enough."

"I wager Lord Boromir favored you by the end," said Walda.

"He did," Istuion agreed, "I thought he'd surely hate me after I essentially told him that the meeting was wasting our time and that I knew what needed to be done. But, lo' and behold, he found my blunt speech 'refreshing.' It was a surprise."

"I dou't Lord Ranulf liked tha' change," said Hallam.

"No. He was agitated for the rest of the meeting, and personally pulled my brother aside to speak to him about his distaste for you. Boromir found it amusing."

All of them jumped, excluding the unfailingly calm Ohtar, swiveling their heads wildly to stare at the captain-commander standing mere feet away.

"What is with you, sir, and appearing out of nowhere?!" yelled Istuion, picking himself up from the damp ground to sit by his cement mixture once again.

"I have come to see how your construction is proceeding. Damrod is gathering the soldiers Boromir and I promised you. My brother asked me to tell you to watch for Lord Ranulf; he's hoping to put you in your place."

Istuion actually snorted in response. "As if that son of Tor could put me in my supposed place. I've hunted enemy Haradrim, killed them for three years in various ways. If he thinks I'm like a soldier of Osgiliath, who would falter when confronted with an easterner and not an orc, he's sorely mistaken."

Faramir frowned, unsure of the abrupt turn in the conversation. He shifted uneasily on his feet. "That is a dark thing to say, Captain Istuion."

"Ah, but it is a very true thing to say, Lord Faramir," spoke Ohtar, who came to stand beside the Steward-son. "Can you say, with all surety of a warrior, that you did not falter or feel guilt when you defeated your first Easterling? There is a difference between killing an Orc and killing an Easterling," he said calmly, "The Orc was created by Morgoth, used by Sauron, with no family and a monstrous appearance; the Easterling has a family, friends, property, and dreams. One is a twisted monster, and the other is a man who had been lead down a path writ with lies and deceit. In your mind, you can come to terms with killing an orc. But killing another man? It leaves scars of the heart."

"Tha's why the Capp'n issa' man to be feared: addin' blood on his hands is nothin' when 'e already has 'em plent'ey stained," remarked Hallam, an ominous glint in his eyes.

"But nothing of this will become anything of action," Walda said loudly, pointedly glancing amongst them, "Because causing such trouble and bloodshed is not in the captain's interest. Or, something that is allowed by his moral compass."

"Indeed. I'm not an unstable man leading fifty men into battle," admitted Istuion, voice low, "If Lord Ranulf wants to pick fights with me, I will simply refuse. He has nothing to say that could rile me into agreeing."

"I should hope so," Faramir said carefully, watching the young man warily.

The Captain-Commander had not given much thought to the differences in fighting the varying enemies of Gondor. He had to admit Ohtar was right; slaying an orc was not the same as slaying a man of the East. The memory of the light leaving dark eyes framed by black fabric flashed in Faramir's mind, and he nearly shivered. That had been long ago, when he had been younger and more foolish. It lingered, the memory, as well as the many others that involved defeating Easterlings with a quick plunge of his blade. That defining difference made the killing of orc so much more easy; they were stuff of nightmares, and killing them simply became akin to fighting those nightmares in real life. Did that mean taking a life, no matter the race, had become easy for him? Was an Orc's existence less valuable than an Easterling's? Was it the same? Did that make any of the fighting right?

These thoughts explained why Captain Istuion and his men had said what they had. Their garrison had spent three years only killing men of the East. There would be no orcs attempting to cross the Poros river, and the bloody corpses surely buried their hearts in dark places. Even he, the son of the Steward, someone who vowed to protect Gondor as his father did, would nearly go mad. Perhaps Istuion had tried to not kill the Easterlings who approached the Poros, and that was how he began to realize there were differences amongst the men of the East. That, maybe, was why their garrison draped themselves in eastern finery and accepted weaponry from the easterners. That, in all truth, was why Istuion had been honest in saying he would not falter if Lord Ranulf dared to challenge him by way of the sword.

Faramir felt he understood the mysterious young captain ever more, but summoned forth many more questions about both Istuion… and himself.


	3. The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Again, any and all passages or quotes taken from mentioned books are not owned by me in any way, shape, or form. If anyone is interested in a map of Gondor to understand all my ranting about posts and locations, I have (tried to) put a link to one on my profile. Just scroll all the way to the bottom and you'll see it. If it's broken, I recommend looking up a detailed map of Osgiliath and an equally detailed map of Middle-Earth. I also warn you that Hallam is speaking a great deal in this chapter, so if you're not used to reading accents (Much like reading Hagrid in Harry Potter, if I had to make a comparison) then forgive me. I recommend reading carefully. Any _"italics with quotations"_ spoken by Istuion are in English, not Westron.

Please, read and review! I want lots of reviews! I want lots of views! BRING IT ON!

* * *

 **Chapter Three:** ** _The Raven_** **by Edgar Allan Poe**

* * *

 _3018th Year of the Third Age; Osgiliath, the tail-end of early spring..._

* * *

"You there! What in the name of Manwë's right thumb are you doing?!"

The man addressed nervously turned, his grey eyes lit with honest fear at the tone of Istuion's voice. "I-I am wading into the river, Captain," he answered uncertainly.

"I don't care if you're deciding it's the summer season and you want to go swimming with the orcs! Get your _sorry ass_ out of the shallows and return to your watch!"

"Y-yes, sir!" With all speed a man standing in waist-deep water could muster, the subordinate scrambled out of the river toward the defensive wall stretched across the shoreline.

An uneventful two weeks had passed since the garrison formerly posted at the Poros outpost had been reassigned to the riverbanks of the Anduin in Osgiliath by order of the Steward. Faramir had been a near-constant presence amongst the eccentric group of southwestern Ithilien rangers since the first officers' meeting, helping them in building the riverbank deterrent, talking to Istuion's close comrades, or badgering the young captain himself about the alien books stored away in overfull saddlebags. All of which, Istuion would add, under the guise of supervising the rangers under his command. Boromir had only visited their station twice since the first officers' meeting, in contrast to his younger brother, but he "quite enjoyed" meeting all the southwestern fellows.

Of course, he never saw what really went on when he wasn't present, but it was probably good that he didn't know.

The five soldiers the captain-general had promised Istuion had arrived hours after Faramir had come to begin overseeing the construction of the shoreline deterrent. The younger son of the Steward knew three of them. Istuion unhappily knew one. Their names? Damrod, Mablung, and Anborn. The leftover two men were armored foot soldiers who had plain names and quiet depositions. The former three men, however, were actually some of Faramir's loyal troops. Why the man had three rangers, who were previously following the man blindly into battle with a half-dozen other fellows, the young captain didn't really want to know. All that he actually did know was that Faramir's small troop had been disbanded and scattered amongst the soldier stationings, acting as what Istuion would call " _snipers_." The Captain-Commander had decided to adopt his garrison instead.

 _Oh joy_ , Istuion had thought sarcastically at the time, with no small amount of bitterness. _I guess I'm that pathetic, stray puppy that couldn't be left alone with my cohort. Now I have to be a damn babysitter for three chuckleheads, plus an extra two armored mutes..._

So, in two weeks, the riverbank deterrent was constructed and finished. The sons of the Steward had been unabashedly impressed by their speed and efficiency, which Istuion thought to be about right reaction-wise. _Approve of me and keep Ranulf off my ass, approve of me and keep Ranulf off my ass_ had become an internalized mantra for the youth. The wall itself was designed by Walda, whom drafted various diagrams and building plans with his young captain's input. Made from the surrounding rubble, it started from the edge of the water and rose straight up, stopping at five feet above. The deterrent was glued together with a cement mixture, which Istuion made himself with ingredients he "borrowed" from the Osgiliath stores. Being a foot thick, five feet tall, and stretching across the entirety of their station (Read: a little less than a fifth of a mile from a broken column to the leaning remnants of a watchtower), it was much better than any random outcropping of debris for defense purposes.

Of course, the period of two weeks was also when Istuion became feared amongst the new additions, though Damrod tried not to show it in the youth's presence. It wasn't actually Istuion's fault, truth be told. He quite hated it, though a tiny part of him took perverse delight in their terror. All of it could be blamed on Hallam, and some minor input from Ohtar and Walda. It went much like this:

"I do not quite see, Anborn, how our new commanding officer managed to gain his station," spoke Mablung. His black hair stopped halfway down his shoulder blades, his eyes grey and face covered in a decent amount of facial hair. A musketeer-like mustache grew beneath his nose, though there was no exaggerated curling.

"Mayhaps he rose to the rank of captain when his own captain fell in battle? Field promotions do happen, my friend," answered Anborn. He was a big-boned man, with dark hair that he had personally cut short to his strong jawline as well as a thin mustache and stubble on his face. Like nearly all Gondorians, his eyes were grey.

"Yes, but there is always a story behind such things, Anborn. He is younger than both of us, surely. I doubt he has seen more than sixteen winters, if that."

"That is quite harsh of you to say, Mablung. You should give him credit, if he can lead an entire garrison against the enemies of the East for three years with only a loss of five in that time; I heard this from some of the men stationed here."

"I will hold to my suspicions until told the story behind his rise in rank," Mablung said with finality, "The man will have to earn my loyalty, not given it on a silver platter."

"What ya' be talkin' about?"

The pair of rangers turned their heads, seeing Hallam walking up to them. They stared unsurely at the man, and for good reason. His features were not in the least bit soft; Hallam's visage was weathered, his skin dusky compared to any pale Gondorian, hair wildly wavy, and his eyes an unnervingly abyssal brown. There had always been rumors surrounding Hallam, the crack shot southwestern archer of the garrison. These two heard them all in the two weeks the small garrison had been in Osgiliath. Some said that his father had been an Umbar pirate, and he inherited the black eyes from him; possibly the untamable hair and darker skin. Others said his father has been a renegade Easterling who had sailed in on a merchant ship, teaching Hallam the way of the bow and smatterings of their strange language. Either way, the man had grown up to be a master sailor of his little schooner, hunting for furs along the coastlines and earning the seafaring slur in his speech along the way. He only signed up for service because Walda had been dead-set on joining, which only Istuion and Ohtar knew.

"Err, nothing, Hallam," said Anborn, hoping to dodge the coming conversation. The ex-sailor's eyes truly unnerved him.

Mablung, however, managed to overcome his intimidation and xenophobia. "Your captain is young for his station." It was a plain but extremely bold statement. Anborn was surprised Hallam didn't lunge at his friend.

"Yes, tha' be true," Hallam casually affirmed, adjusting his vambraces in passing. "Our former capp'n died by an arrow to tha' chest, shot by an Easterlin' bastard. Capp'n Istuion was 'is second, so he took up tha' mantle, in short."

"Who was the former captain?" questioned Damrod, having made his way over to the small group of rangers. Hallam scowled at the man.

"Lovely, now I nearly 'ave all tha' new recruits 'ere," grumbled the ex-sailor. "What am I, y'ur storytellin' nursemaid?"

"We are just interested to know the tale of how Captain Istuion earned his station," said Mablung. "It is not as though we want to hear retellings of wives' tales."

"Sure ya' don't," Hallam answered sarcastically, "You only want to hear a gruesome story abou' our capp'n, who is now also y'ur capp'n, might I remind you."

"You might as well tell us the story," said Anborn, looking a little regretful in the eyes, "Damrod and Mablung will not give up bothering you until you tell it."

The crack shot archer huffed, then glanced around the area. Many of the men were slaving away on the wall, and Istuion was more than occupied with pouring his cement mixture as his subordinates placed hunks of stone debris down behind him. Eventually Hallam found a decent-sized boulder to sit on, and gestured the others to find a seat amongst the rock.

"Now," Hallam spoke in all seriousness, eyes gleaming, "This 'ere story takes place barely a month inta' Capp'n Istuion's service. He'd just joined our garrison, an' he was quite green; 'adn't seen any war fightin' before then, 'adn't killed an Easterlin' before. Our former capp'n liked 'im though, Capp'n Duinhir, son of Duilin. The man liked 'is spirit, and tha' sharp mind of 'is. Ohtar had been Duinhir's second. But, in barely two weeks, Capp'n Istuion 'ad proved 'is place. He gave Duinhir ideas, plans ta' defend our sorry excuse fer' a outpost, and demonstrated 'is fightin' prowess durin' sparring—"

"How did he prove himself?" cut in Damrod.

Hallam scowled, agitated that the man threw off his ominous storytelling vibe. "Why, what do ya' think?! Capp'n defeated Duinhir, an' made quite a show outa' it. He's able ta' wield 'is sword wit both hands, not just with his strong arm."

"You're kidding!" announced Anborn. "Only the most masterful of swordsmen can accomplish that, and even then, they are still not as proficient as they are with their strong arm."

"Well, 'e can," Hallam said annoyedly, "And none of us could beat 'im either because of it. 'E's right tricky."

The ex-sailor returned to his attempt to recite the story. "So, late Capp'n Duinhir nominated 'im 'is second, surprisin' tha' whole garrison. Ohtar agreed wit tha' decision wholeheartedly. We 'adn't been attacked by Easterlin's in weeks, and Capp'n Istuion 'ad been lucky enough to join us durin' that calm time. But, close to sunset, a rabble of 'em Haradrim bastards rode in on their equin's; all of those blighters came outa' nowhere! Our lookouts 'ad been baffled. Arrows tipped wit' eastern falcon feath'urs rained down on us, they managed to break through our gates, an' all hell broke loose.

"It t'was durin' this attack tha' we lost five of our men, an' had to bury them on the same day. Capp'n Istuion, meself, Ohtar, Walda, and Capp'n Duinhir 'ad been together through it all. Walda earned th'se scars on 'is cheek an' nose, Ohtar earned a damn ugly scar on 'is arm, and Duinhir… " Hallam trailed off.

"One moment, 'e was yellin' at us to 'ead off the Easterlin's in the small keep below, the next, he's nearly fallin' over the wall wit' an arrow lodged between 'is ribs. I never seen Capp'n Istuion more horrified than in tha' moment. You could see 'is eyes," Hallam told, gesturing with his hands to his own eerie irises, "How tha' hazel slowly lit aflame wit' an unspeakable fury. It t'was almost as if 'e'd turn inna' a wraith. Capp'n listened to Duinhir's last words, carefully laid 'im down, and stormed into the keep. All of us were callin' after 'im, fearin' he'd git' himself killed while in tha' rage…"

"And we thought he had, for a time, as he had disappeared into the madness of the battle."

Ohtar wandered over, his face for once darkened and not pleasantly calm. The man's features appeared more prominent, the creases of weathered age drawing tracks in his skin. Ohtar's hair was peppered with grey as well as his beard, and the tattoo crawling up from his jerkin glared out in black ink. Those normally soft blue eyes were shadowed with memory. The three rangers listening stared wide-eyed at the two speakers. Walda had followed after the son of Erland.

"But when we had fought our way outside the gates," spoke Walda, "Captain Istuion was trading blows with a laughing Easterling, surrounded by corpses of the enemy. Blood covered him everywhere. The Easterling knew Westron, and could speak it brokenly. He spat insults, ranting how he had killed Duinhir, and would take immeasurable joy in killing Istuion. Our captain snapped."

Hallam nodded solumnly. "That 'e did. Capp'n, enraged be'yond compare, cut open 'is stomach like a' squealin' pig. As the Easterlin' screamed, 'e pulled out one of his daggers and ribbed tha' man's chest. As 'is opponent gurgled out 'is last breath, a drowned rattle if I ever 'eard one, Capp'n slit tha' bastard's throat. Tha' Easterlin' was nothin' but a mutilated corpse onna' battlefield, entrails poured all over ther' ground."

Anborn's visage was pale, and slightly green. Mablung looked terrified into silence, while Damrod appeared unable to process the brutal ending of the tale. The other rangers left the three recruits to stew, Hallam snickering at their expressions and Walda smirking ever-so-minutely.

And so Istuion, upon finding out that his trusted friends had told those three chuckleheads the story of his field promotion with the most gruesome details over-exaggerated, had a sudden need to drown his head in the Anduin's shallows. True, his anger had been at its peak when Duinhir had died in his arms and that Easterling dog had slandered the honor of the fallen rangers, but the fight between him and the Easterling had not been so… gore-filled. The young captain had nearly died at least three times in that confrontation, and the only move that managed to slow the enemy down had been to slice at his belly. A very swift and possibly overzealous thrust of his bastard sword into the Easterling's chest had occurred thereafter, which Istuion would not deny that he savored, but nothing with daggers and ribbing. By God, he wasn't a rabid hound!

Damrod didn't continue trying to rile him or question his authority anymore, in any case. Anborn, who had been a perfectly fine subordinate, was now as skittish as a rabbit. Mablung could not look Istuion in the eyes, or anything above the young captain's boots. The youth's garrison was combing the shoreline again, hoping to find where the orcs had crossed over to ambush the men formerly stationed at their post. Anborn had been trolling around in the river, and one stern order sent the man sprinting for cover.

 _What are they? Spineless ninnies that fear an officer that's younger than them? It's not like I'm going to gut them or something equally brutal._

"Any luck, Ohtar?" the young captain asked his second.

The elder fellow shook his head, "None, Captain. I am almost left to suspect those orcs managed to guide a boat across, since we cannot find any sort of submerged path."

Istuion internally scoffed. If the orcs used a boat to cross, they would have been able to find it as they searched the shoreline. Those enemy brutes weren't the brightest when it came to subtlety.

"Do you know where the Captain-Commander is? He might have an old map of Osgiliath we can reference. Perhaps there are remnants still useable of the bridges, and we simply limit ourselves to a small section of the river. Which, I will take the blame for; I hadn't thought to glance at a map until now."

"It is alright, sir; what you suggest is wise. Last I have seen, Lord Faramir was with Hallam."

Istuion visibly cringed, thumbing the beads of his thin braid. "Of all the people the Steward-son could choose to spend his time with, he had to choose Hallam."

The son of Erland chuckled, blue eyes twinkling. "At least the Lord will learn a thing or two about southwestern Ithilien, and, mayhaps, about sailing."

"All I know is that this madness deprives me of my reading time. You, Ranger!" Istuion yelled.

One of his subordinates turned, attentive. He was plain, except for the ordinate gold earrings pierced along his lobes. "Yessir?"

"Find Lord Faramir and Hallam, bring them back here. Ask the Steward-son if he has a map of Osgiliath, and if he does not, ask to find his brother and have the permission to procure said map. Upon procuring it, return here. Understood?"

The ranger nodded. "Yes, Captain Istuion."

"Good. Go now."

The subordinate promptly dashed off along the damp shore, passing his fellow rangers and hailing to a few of them in passing. Istuion and his second watched him for a moment, before turning away.

"Do you know where Walda is?"

"I do, captain."

"Find him as well; I have a feeling his knowledge might help when the map arrives."

Ohtar bowed his head, "As you wish, captain."

The young captain's second departed, walking off towards their campsite underneath the ruined building. Istuion stared out over the swollen Anduin, fingering the ceramic and metal beads of his braid. Five minutes later, the youth turned at the sound of swiftly approaching steps.

"Whatzit, Capp'n? One of tha' lads told us you were lookin' fer' us, an' somethin' about a map," spoke Hallam.

"Do you have a map of Osgiliath, sir?" Istuion looked to the captain-commander, hoping he had been more attentive towards his messenger then Hallam apparently had been.

"I do not. Your messenger asked if he had the permission to obtain one from my brother, and I gave him leave," Faramir responded. "Why do you inquire?"

"It just dawned on me, sir, that we should have bothered to look at a map of this city; I vaguely remember that, at its pinnacle, Osgiliath had a number of bridges crossing the Anduin," he said, "This posting only covers a small fraction of the shoreline, and if there is enough leftover stone in the Anduin from any of the collapsed bridges, the orcs could wade across at their own risk. And, from there, they could have come down to this posting and ambushed the garrison here from the side, not from across the Anduin."

"That would mean your deterrent was built for naught."

The young captain shook his head, "Not exactly, sir. As I had said at the meeting a number of days past, the deterrent is needed. When we find this bridge, we destroy it; with it gone, it would force the orcs to try and come across at this post by boat, as this was the only clear shoreline one could beach at without risking damage to a boat.

"The stores you have here in Osgiliath have much to work with: plenty of saltpeter, and large, watertight jars. The easterners who had traded with us at the Poros Outpost provided me with some bags of black powder, which those in Arnor use in fireworks. Haradrim mainly use it for mining, as the Deciever needs a great deal of ore to supply his armies with weapons and armor. If combined with the right elements, something taught to me by an easterner in fact, black powder can become quite useful in destroying things." He finished his explanation with a mischievous smirk.

Faramir was shaking his head, trying to hold back his amusement. "When, Istuion, do you not have a plan up your sleeve?"

"When I'm drunk, drugged, or dead," he quipped.

Hallam laughed unabashedly. "An' hopefully not in tha' order!"

Not long after, Ohtar returned with Walda. Istuion quickly filled him in, and the scribe found himself a steady rock to sit on. His stained hands rapidly flew across a page of parchment, recording and noting. He fumbled with remembering what he could of Osgiliath in present times, sketching out rough curves and boxes. Minutes following that, the messenger returned.

However, instead of simply bringing a map, Lord Boromir himself was at the subordinate's heels.

"Brother!" Faramir called, in surprise or greeting Istuion wasn't sure.

"This ranger came into the stone house asking for a map by your order," the elder Steward-son began, "But I had a feeling you were planning something, brother."

"Not I, it is Istuion's plan."

"You make it sound as though that's a bad thing, sir," said the young captain.

"Tha' depends on who it 'tis thinkin' it," Hallam commented.

Istuion rolled his eyes. "Hallam, by God…"

"Nonetheless," Faramir cut, hoping to dodge that possible verbal deathmatch, "Do you have the map, brother?"

Boromir held up his fisted hand, which had the rolled up map in its grasp. "Indeed. I am curious why you wish to see it."

The elder Steward-son handed it to his sibling, who smirks. "Again, brother, it is not I who wants it." Faramir passed it to Istuion, who quickly laid it out on the flattest hunk of debris around them.

"That would be me, sir," said the young captain, his murky eyes roving over the fading ink lines. "Ah, so there were more than a few bridges crossing the Anduin!"

Boromir's brow furrowed. "The bridges? That is what you needed to see?"

Istuion nodded distractedly, fingers lightly tracing the worn parchment. Walda stood peering over his captain's shoulder, his stack of papers and charcoal in hand as he muttered to himself.

"While Lord Ranulf still gives you grief over my presence amongst the captains," he spoke, "My garrison has been scouring the shoreline for the hidden crossing the orcs had used to massacre the former battalion stationed here. Nothing was found, and my second was convinced the orcs had managed to sneak across the river by boat somewhere farther up the shore than anywhere nearby here. But, orcs have a natural failing when it comes to subtlety; sneaking isn't included in their skill sets. It is only now it dawned on me that the orcs could be crossing the Anduin thanks to the remnants of the fallen bridges. If they are close enough to the surface, an orc could very well attempt to risk wading across."

Istuion pointed to a section of the shoreline depicted in front of him. "This is where we are now; between the edges of the former Thoronumen ghetto and Forum of Turambar. There were originally four bridges built over the river: Iant Sollen, Iant Breithon, Iant Romendacil, and Iant Ciryaher. The Iant Breithon has been collapsed and useless since this map was made, so the orcs obviously could not have used it. That leaves the other three, two of which are close to this post."

"I doubt the Iant Ciryaher was used," said Walda, "That bridge leads into the bulk of the soldier postings, and the same could technically be said for the Iant Romendacil."

Istuion tilted his head toward Walda, "Why would you say that?"

"You probably did not stay here in Osgiliath long enough to see before being shipped off to Poros back then, but if a man stood in the wide space of the ruined bull market," Walda pointed to the place in question on the map, "There is too much debris for anyone to see the Iant Romendacil, if the remnants were close enough to the surface."

Boromir shook his head, crossing his arms. "It is not possible. My brother and I have protected this ruin city for a great deal of our lives. Iant Romendacil is blocked by that debris; as is much of the shoreline for the western banks of Osgiliath. This post is _―_ was _―_ the only place that did not have rubble able to stop a boat or orc-swimmer from beaching. The Iant Ciryaher fractured; long before my time, yes, but it did not fall with grace," he explained.

"Then tha' leaves Iant Sollen," stated Hallam.

"That bridge seemed to have been the most well-built of them all when Osgiliath was at its height," commented Istuion, tapping the drawn lines of said bridge on the map. "It had the most supports, and it's the closest to this post."

"I have read in the libraries of Gondor that the Iant Sollen had been the first to fall when the city had been attacked," said Faramir, "Betrayers had sabotaged the supports, sacrificing themselves to destroy it. The task had been done with miner's tools, and three men had to be stationed at each support."

Istuion's eyes widened. "By God, that's fifty and one men who sided with the enemy!"

"It was the time of the Kin-Strife, when Eldacar was besieged by Castamir's forces. That blood feud and the Great Plague were dark chapters in Gondor's history."

"Well, the Iant Sollen then. It's not far from here."

The Steward-sons nodded, as did Istuion's subordinates. "Let us go."

* * *

The Iant Sollen was a steady walk of a half-mile from Istuion's station, hidden in dense rubble that was hazardously jagged and precarious to traverse safely. What were once prospering residences and open market streets were forests of shattered stone, and the constant presence of ankle-deep water lurked in every crevice. Rotting boards of ancient wood were wedged under debris, crunched under pillars, or mindlessly floating between islands of eroded rock. Hallam and Ohtar began feeling on edge halfway there from the haunting sights, drawing their bows and knocking a cautionary arrow. The rest held firm hands on their swords, Istuion grasping both sword and well-hidden daggers. Wind coming down the Anduin tousled their hair and pulled at their cloaks, churning the water at their boots and biting into their eyes.

"There ar' times when I feel as though I am bac' at sea, an' this be one of 'em," spoke Hallam.

"You sound like an elf, my friend," remarked Walda, tromping through the water not far behind. "Only they dream of the sea with a tired longing akin to old age instead of your longing for the freedoms of open water."

"Isn't your schooner waiting at the docks for you back in Southwestern Ithilien?" wondered Istuion, clambering beside Faramir in the middle of their procession.

"It 'tis, Capp'n. By tha' time this war's over, business sh'uld be good again."

"Perhaps I should follow you all back; you've all told me enough about Southwestern Ithilien that I'm tempted to go."

"That'd be mighty fine of ye'h, Capp'n!"

"Indeed," spoke Ohtar, "My siblings would surely love to meet the man who has been my captain for three long years."

"Bah! You're jus' tryin' to flatter the Capp'n again, Ohtar! Bootlicker!"

"Oh lord…" Walda mumbled.

"Hallam, by God, will you never keep your mouth shut?!" admonished Istuion, striding agitatedly towards the crack-shot ranger.

Boromir leaned toward his brother, watching the four babble reasonably low ahead of them. "Is this how your men act when I'm away?"

The younger Steward-son offered an exasperated smile, "Indeed. They mean well, brother. It is simply that three years together serving at the Poros outpost has made them close companions."

"So they are. I find I like these men, however unusual they are."

Hallam abruptly halted up ahead, his bow quickly raised and his movements through the water and rocks near-silent. The rest of their procession immediately followed suit, all amusing talk forgotten, the three high-ranking officers moving forward. A large grouping of fang-shaped boulders became useful cover: Hallam standing behind Walda, bow taut and eyes sharp. Faramir stood behind Istuion, his bow dawn but kept low, while Istuion did not hesitate to knock an arrow and hold it high. Ohtar and Boromir, both whom had drawn their respective bow and sword, hid farther back.

The young captain narrowed her _―his―_ hazel eyes at the sight further ahead, lips turning down into a stark frown. "Hallam," he muttered quietly, "What do you see? Unless my eyes are deceiving me, there are indeed orcs standing at the rocky shore."

Keen black eyes squinted, staring down the shaft of an arrow for guidance. "Ther' is, Capp'n."

"We were right, then," spoke Faramir, voice low, "The enemy has managed to ford across the Anduin upon the remnants of Iant Sollen. To think we had not known…"

Istuion shook his head. "You would not know because what is left of the once great bridge is just beneath the surface of the river water. A natural illusion, you could say. My most primary concern now is whether or not there are more orcs on our side of the banks than what we see now."

Boromir's expression was that of anger, "If there are any orc who dare to make this side their own, I shall personally see them to their deaths. I will bring the full weight of our host upon them."

"I do not think that wise, milord," Ohtar spoke up behind the Steward-son, "As they say in southwestern Ithilien, 'Do not stir a nest of crows unless the rangers know.' My fellow men under Istuion have overtaken enemies numbering well in the hundreds, and many an arrow has been shot against them. If there are any more orcs, allow us to aid you in ending them all."

Boromir eyed the burly ranger, with his inked skin and peppered hair. He turned to Istuion, "Is what he says true, captain?"

The youth nodded. "The Haradrim are quite merciless and insistent, Lord Boromir. Strategy and a constant wealth of arrows have turned great numbers into nothing when my ranger folk face them; my second is quite right in what he says."

Then the Steward-son looked to his younger sibling, "What have you to say on this matter?"

"Though I agree with Istuion's second, I would feel more confident if we had a garrison of soldiers lying in wait. Perhaps Ranulf's men, to appease his unrelenting ire, or Gárwine; Ranulf fears backlash from Fram in court matters so much so that he will not bark too loud if Fram's son is given this duty."

Istuion smirked. "Oh, how I love good political maneuvers," he said to himself, drawing smiles from his men.

"But," said Boromir, halting any further cheer, "I would also like to know how you will deal with both the bridge and the orcs, Captain Istuion."

The youth's smirk did not falter, "Why, Lord Boromir, wasn't it your brother who said that I always seemed to have a plan for everything? I'm neither drunk, drugged, or dead yet. Let us head back; I will assign Damrod and Mablung to watch those orcs ahead."

* * *

Istuion knew his way around… Well, let's call it crafting. The fictional character MacGyver would have loved to have him as his granddau _―grandson_ , since he was essentially as good as him when it came to jury-rigging anything he could manage. Need to make a homemade explosive? Gunpowder, saltpeter, and a few other ingredients could turn a watertight jar into a homemade claymore, thanks to the teachings of one eccentric easterner. Need to create a bridge? Well, Istuion could build a rope bridge with a tether, a crossbow's iron bolt, his basic rope-weaving skills, and plenty of weights to stabilize the bridge. Her father had been an engineer after all, and so were her grandfathers and her great-grandfathers. She'd inherited that craft-oriented mind and the fantastic intelligence that came with it, simple as that. Not that she'd ever tell anyone. Or that she was a _she_ and not a _he_. Right? Right.

But, there were problems for the youth to overcome. His homemade claymores had to be able to destroy a structure underwater; he wasn't entirely sure if the water pressure would dampen or worsen the explosion. The remnants of Iant Sollen had to be destroyed; despite the fact many of the officers under Lord Boromir thought it would be advantageous for their side, the water was too deep for an average man to wade. The orcs would simply have an open season against any soldiers that dared to make it across. Lord Boromir and his officers would simply have to concede to Istuion's plan. The risks outweighed their wants.

Yet, perhaps out of pity or to offer an alternative to the captain's captain-general, there was the rope bridge concept that could be pursued. It was Istuion's way to make it up to the elder Steward-son, really, and Faramir would probably see it as a nice sentiment. But to actually craft the rope bridge so it wouldn't snap as soon as a fully-armored Gondorian soldier stepped foot on it? There was not enough existing rope or horsehair to weave said rope to possibly make the rope bridge idea work. The rangers could probably do it, as they were light-footed by training. Only Ohtar was built to double as a soldier, which was fortunate. They could use the bridge, forge ahead of the initial force, shoot off resistance, then have the soldiers cross by boat? The army did have boats stored away; Istuion just would have to erect posts along their deterrent to draw the boats ashore on the return trip to the western banks.

" _Agh, to hell with all this!_ " the young captain muttered angrily in his foreign tongue, tossing the stick of charcoal away from him.

Istuion agitatedly folded his parchment plans away, stuffing it into his jerkin. The parchment and charcoal had come from Walda. He would have to fetch the stick of charcoal from where it rolled off; the studious ranger would be cross with him if he didn't return it.

"You do not seem to be fairing well, Captain."

The youth turned around sharply, eyes wide. "Lord Faramir, please do stop appearing out of nowhere!"

The Steward-son chuckled, "Forgive me, it is hard to stop this growing tradition we have."

Istuion scoffed lightly, "You are a trickster if I've ever saw one, sir. It is no wonder you fit in with my rangers so well in such a short amount of time."

He found the charcoal, grasping it between his blackened fingers, before shuffling off towards Walda's horse. They were back at the western shore station, the deterrent standing strong against the churning Anduin and the wind. Walda, Ohtar, and Hallam were off among the men, leaving Istuion alone under their dilapidated ruin called camp. The garrison's horses were a little off from the ruin, tied to a hitching rope set up between two broken pillars. Faramir trailed behind the captain.

"Have your plans not come together as they should?" prodded Faramir. He was a caring man, Istuion would admit, and he acted like a kind shoulder to lean on as soon as he saw barely a hint of distress.

The youth sighed, "To an extent, sir. It is more that I am concerned about the success of the plans. What I have in mind might not completely solve our problem."

"How so?"

"Remember how I had said I could use black powder given to me from the East to destroy the remnants of Iant Sollen? I can make the items needed to do so, but I don't know how effective they will be underwater. The weight of the water may hinder the items' effectiveness."

"We will take the risk, Istuion. Your plans have not lead myself or my brother astray so far, and your men have not befallen an ill fate thanks to you."

The young captain offered a weak smile. "I guess one could say that. I am sorry that your brother and my fellow officers have given you trouble about the Iant Sollen. Hopefully my second plan will alleviate their upset."

"Oh?" said Faramir, looking to the younger man, "And what will this new plan accomplish?"

"Hopefully, it'll create a bridge and a successful way to assault the enemy and reclaim the eastern banks. If not, it's an entertaining but dangerous way to tease the orcs." The youth shoved the charcoal into the saddlebags of Walda's pale mare, then fumbled with his jerkin to procure his newest read.

"A new book?" questioned Faramir, noticing the hard-bound object pulled free from the young captain's clothes.

Istuion's eyes brightened. "Indeed! Another foreign book, this time by a man named _Edgar Allan Poe_. He writes somewhat dark and saddening works, but his wordsmithing is quite admirable. Possibly my favorite of all his works would be _The Raven_."

Faramir furrowed his brow, "The what? You know I do not understand that strange tongue, though I hope one day you will teach it to me."

"It means, 'the Raven.' A long and foreboding poem, alluding to the inevitable end of life, involving a raven and a man."

"Do you have a favored stanza? I would like to hear it, for there is no amount of so-called 'dark writing' in the libraries of Gondor."

Istuion smirked, flipping open the thick book and leafing through the pages to the right place. His hazel eyes darted across the written words, fingers hovering over the text.

". . . In there stepped a stately Raven of the _saintly_ days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of _Pallas_ just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's _Plutonian_ shore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore." . . . "

Faramir walked beside the young captain, strangely captivated by the stanzas of an equally strange-named man. To him, though the words were indeed foreboding and not offering any remorse in their descent into darker topics, were mildly nonsensical in wording. The Steward-son would admit he liked it, and found it fitting in their present setting. _Foreboding words for foreboding times_ , he thought. There were only three words that could not be translated in that poem, and he felt it did not too overly detract from the overall feeling of the written work.

"That was more than a single stanza, Captain Istuion," he remarked.

"You didn't say you were against hearing more," retorted the youth walking beside him, hands cradling the hard-bound collection of works. "And knowing you, with your ever-present hunger for literature in all its forms, I'm sure you liked it."

Faramir smiled, "That I did. You were not lying when you said his works were foreboding. I am sure the poem swiftly turns black."

"It does. The wording is sort of hard to understand, and the male character is extremely distressed and fearful. I always interpreted the end to mean that the raven inevitably collects the man's life, which the bird alludes to by only speaking "nevermore" like a warning call."

'Perhaps, though I feel it may also warn that a man cannot change his fate."

"Why, Lord Faramir," Istuion spoke in surprise, "I didn't take you for a man who accepts fate. You and brother are fighting fate by combating the enemy every day. Don't go contradicting yourself, sir."

"Is it? Or is it our fate to inevitably prevail, live out our lives, then pass on?"

"Maybe I shouldn't have read you any _Edgar Allan Poe_ , Lord Faramir. Now you're turning as dark in mood as his writing."

Faramir shook his head, halting his steps a foot away from the dilapidated ruin of Istuion's camp. Istuion paused beside him, looking up at the seemingly distressed man. He closed the book, returning it to its place underneath his jerkin, before clasping his commander's shoulder.

"What bothers you, sir? Naught but a moments ago you were hopeful of my plans and confident in taking risks, acting as the comforting one. Though I may not be your brother, I would like to think you'll tell me why you're quietly upsetting yourself."

The Steward-son chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "For many days I have pondered the words of your rangers, of combating Easterlings and your fellow man. It has unsettled my heart, and has left me to look into the waters of the Anduin upon my own reflection. Have I come to accept the bloodshed so easily that I am numb to it? Has the Easterling, with dark eyes and dark cloth wrapped about his face, a family and love in his homeland awaiting his return? Why should I be the one to decide his doom?"

Istuion blinked owlishly. He had always seen Faramir as a kind person, and an equally good man. She remembered reading the books, and suddenly recalled what Faramir, the fictional Faramir, standing over the corpse of an Easterling, debated similarly:

 _...The enemy? His sense of duty was no less than ours, I deem. You wonder what his name was. Where he came from? If he was really evil at heart? What lies or threats lead him on this long march from home, when he'd rather have stayed there? Peace. War will make corpses of us all._

Maybe her appearance, her influence, was shaping the future. She just about expected it now, with all the plans she had been enabling in the last three years. Would Faramir have come to the conclusion he did now without her, just as he had in the books? Questions like that made Istuion unable to sleep at night.

"Faramir," the young captain said plainly, drawing the Steward-son's eyes. "You are a good man, a good commander, and a good brother. The knowledge that you understand, that you are reflecting on what my rangers have said, is a sign that you are not heartless. And, along with that, you are not naive to the truths of war. You do not idolize the glory as some men. The Haradrim who attack us have made their choice, Faramir, and we have made ours. We cannot truly hate them if they have made the conscious choice themselves. We can only hate the ones who have manipulated them, the people who deserve it. Do you understand this?"

The taller man nodded slowly, staring down at the youth with barely-hidden surprise. Istuion smirked, slapping his commander's shoulder. "Good. Now, don't be so dark and keep up your hope. You'll make everyone else lose it too if you decide to fall apart. People look up to you, might I remind you!"

With that, Istuion walked towards his camp, stirring the dying coals in the fire pit and tossing tinder atop them. Faramir stood still, watching the younger man. He had called him by his name, and not with his title. The Steward-son would call the youth someone he could indeed speak to like he would his brother. Only, he wondered why. What was it about Istuion that made him worth anyone's trust in such short a time? Was it his honesty, his blunt words? Was it his treatment of his men, and how he had never let a single man die since the death of his former captain, Duinhir?

There was something about Captain Istuion, son of none, and Faramir swore to himself he would find it out in time.


	4. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, apparently only _Peregrin Took the Falcon_ , _Tibblets,_ and a slim few are the ones who deign to review this story these days. Surely there something to be said about this story? Either way, here's the next installment. There will be explosions and orc-slaying. Any and all quotes/mentions from existing books are things I do not own. It's a long chapter, and I hope you're prepared to read a lot. You have been warned.

P.S. If anybody's interested in a Rated M Captain America fic, read my first chapter of _Memories Weave Us Baskets_. It's hardcore and angsty as can be, but we know we all love angst.

Enjoy, read, and review! Please! I love reviews!

* * *

 **Chapter Four:** _ **Wuthering Heights**_ **by Emily Bronte**

* * *

 _3018th Year of the Third Age; Osgiliath, the first day of mid-spring..._

* * *

A ceramic jar, bundles of twine dipped in oil, saltpeter, gunpowder, steel arrowheads taken from broken orc arrows, flint pieces, clay, and few extra ingredients.

That list made what Istuion lovingly called a 'homemade claymore,' a jury-rigged device that would explode as soon as its fuse ignited the fatal mix of natural elements and chemicals. Engineering such an item took a great deal of planning, and also a healthy dose of silence to recall how to properly mix the various ingredients together from nothing but very poor instructions from an easterner who spoke broken Westron. Istuion knew that her expertise with such destructive creations would shock and awe her fellow officers, and in a twisted sort of way, she hoped it would engender further trust in her personal capabilities. She _needed_ to have them trust her, and soon. The true war, the War of the Ring, was soon to be triggered by a gathering in Rivendell and a journey made by nine walkers. Though she had tried not to overly concern herself with the timeline, with what old books written by an old English war veteran went on about, the woman in disgui― _a ranger captain to a rowdy garrison of southwestern Ithilien men, with enough intelligence, strategy, and cleverness to knock the socks off any stuck-up, asshole lord who called him something opposite―_ had long ago decided to intervene. That day he realized that what he thought to have been fiction was real, that his learned skills in fighting, hunting, language, and knowledge could be put to use in a positive way, he knew that his own personal failings would not allow him to turn away.

 _Damn my damn lack of self-preservation and the adrenaline junkie I've grown up to be_ , he thought angrily, _along with the self-justification and illusion I've wrapped myself in just by involving myself with matters of a war not my own as well as the budding politics for an equivalent to a medieval European court! Not that I'm necessarily interested in any of it; the only people that I truly care for are my men, Iorlas, those that come from the town along the Sirith, and the friends I've made to the East_...

Besides lingering concerns of trust between men, Istuion was verily aware of how the other officers and his Captain-General were handling his upcoming plans: Without a single ounce of grace. Would he listen? No. And should he care? Possibly.

The only reason he was getting away with his plans was all thanks to the youngest Steward-son and his elder sibling's faith in people. Since the moment he walked through the threshold of the meeting house, Istuion knew he was at an immediate disadvantage. They were not everyday men who understood what it meant to be an average Joe. Or, perhaps, what it was like to have an honest day's work for a living and not a chore that came with one's social standing. The officers were lords of higher station, expecting to get their way in all matters pertaining them. Not that Boromir and Faramir always behaved in that fashion, or if Faramir ever did at all, but it was something they were raised into. It would be hard for a man to be trained out of habits ingrained into him from birth. Status did that to a person. Technically, being adopted by a well-regarded scholar like Iorlas made the youth nobility of some notoriety, but not by much. Iorlas had let him do as he wished in town, only requiring him to keep up with his studies and his swordsmanship. He was otherwise an everyday inhabitant with no special treatment, nothing more than a bastard son. Now there Istuion was, dealing with the adversity and general protest of his superiors-and-or-equals in station.

"I refuse to stand down and await orders, Lord Boromir! That little whelp and his seaside rangers have no place leading the charge!" bellowed Ranulf.

"Lord Ranulf, you have not been denied a place in this plan! You are protecting the front lines, the shoreline station, from surprise attack! There may be a deterrent there now that denies any orc boat to come ashore, but the enemy will still lust for battle! They will surely climb the deterrent and charge the shore if they so please! Without the rangers there to pick them off from a distance, soldiers will die without purpose or honor! They **MUST** be there to meet the enemy!" Boromir railed back, standing tall and surprisingly composed despite his booming voice. His younger brother stepped up beside him.

"Please, Lord Ranulf, do not fear; Lord Gárwine will charge the enclave of orcs near Iant Sollen with Lords Amras and Hirgon. Captain Istuion's men will be there to offer their bows. The young captain himself and a few of his men will be destroying the remnants of the Iant Sollen once and for all," Faramir spoke easily, his calming presence relaxing his elder sibling's stiff shoulders.

Istuion, ignoring the fact none of them, including Faramir, bothered to speak of him with the 'Lord' moniker included, went on listening to the officers trying to soothe Ranulf's temper. A line of six jars were placed to his right side, scattered materials on his opposite. Grabbing a ceramic jar, the youth went about dumping the correct measurements of gunpowder, saltpeter, and other explosive ingredients into the bottom of the ceramic. Upon checking that the mixture was packed into the base of the jar, Istuion rolled out a thin slab of half-dry clay and layered it over the explosive mix. In the center of the clay slab, a bundle of oil-soaked twine stuck up. With a little more clay applied and careful placing of steel and flint, Istuion gingerly sealed the jar with a thick cork-shaped lid. The lid itself was not made from cork, but enough of it stuck out that one could easily twist the lid in place similar to an actual cork lid.

The young captain was proud of his silly little explosives. Chemical ingredients were poured in and kept in place with clay; oil-soaked twine was built into the clay layer, while a clay construct held an arrowhead of steel to the wall of the ceramic container. The twine was hooked lightly on the point, and the chunk of flint fixed to the lid with clay. With one rough twist in a clockwise motion, the flint and steel would spark, lighting the twine. Istuion estimated there would only be a thirty-second gap between lighting and ignition for the person who set the charge to vacate the area. The water would protect the person somewhat, but the force of the explosion had a chance of crushing their ribcage from pressure. The young captain already knew who he'd bring along with him to set and explode the jars: Hallam, Damrod, and Anborn. The crack-shot archer had been a sailor by trade, and in turn, knew plenty about swimming in moving water. Damrod and Anborn were proficient enough in swimming from what he heard, and Istuion himself had swam a number of times in numerous rivers. _I just hope none of these jars malfunction_ , the youth thought, _or we'll all be dead in seconds, if not left to drown from our inability to swim to the surface_.

"How many more have you left to make?" asked Gárwine, smirking at the younger man with his arms crossed. His Rohirric sword shone in the firelight of the monstrous fireplace within the meeting house, matching his golden hair. Istuion really believed he was in the wrong army during the past two weeks of knowing him, until he heard the tales of Gárwine's bravery in fighting for Gondor. _He's a great dude; just stuck between two nations of men like many mixed-blood individuals. A small number of the captains ridicule him for his Rohirric background, the bastards!_

"After this one, five. I want to make a few more, in case any of these crack and fill with water. As a wise man once said: It is better to be safe than sorry," responded Istuion.

"Ever the thoughtful one, little khôr," he chuckled, "I doubt there was ever a time in your life you haven't been a step ahead of anyone."

Istuion never quite understood, from her— _his_ —standpoint as a multilingual individual partially raised by a Gondorian scholar, why there were times when the various languages of Middle-Earth suddenly overlapped each other. He could speak Westron fluently, and with an ease that any true native would be tricked by. Same could decently be said for Sindarin and Quenya, but the other languages were only vaguely known; the youth could not coherently speak them. Adûnaic was one such language that randomly decided to crop up; it was the language that the men of Númenor had once spoken, and Gondorians had a habit of retaining a few words or phrases of it due to the fact Númenoreans were their distant ancestors. Gárwine, though having had a father who was Rohirric, picked up on a few of the Adûnaic words himself. Khôr was a word that meant _Lord_ , and it was probably the only time Istuion's social status was ever acknowledged; unfortunately, it was in jest.

"Whatever you say, _blondie_ ," the young captain quipped, finishing yet another jar.

The older officer smiled. "You must teach me a few words of that language you oh-so-suddenly babble in; it sounds so much like what we speak, but I cannot understand a single word of it!"

Istuion smirked back at the man, "You and Lord Faramir both. Maybe someday I will, but it is a hard language to understand, let alone master." He glanced at the two Steward-sons still trying to calm Ranulf. "Have they made any progress? From what I've been hearing, the desirable outcome is not in our future."

"Little at all. He is quite disgusted that we are following your proposed plan. You know that he thought your deterrent was a waste of time and men; why would he like this plan any more than the old one?"

"Oh, I'm quite aware of his dislike of me," Istuion remarked, "The day the son of Tor accepts one of my plans wholeheartedly is the day the enemy has claimed Minas Tirith as its new capital of evil."

"At least you understand your position, little khôr. I, for one, believe this plan will succeed. When it does, you will be the talk of the army! More than a few women might hear about it in Minas Tirith," the man joked, wiggling his eyebrows at his not-so-subtle suggestion.

"Quiet, you!" admonished the young captain, a faint blush of embarrassment tinging his cheeks. "I have no interest in such things."

"Surely you must have a wife-to-be, or some lovely creature awaiting for your return in Lebennin. Some women would find a pretty face such as yours likable."

Istuion inwardly grimaced. _If only you knew the half of it, blondie._

"I have no woman in wait, or a would-be wife. My caretaker expected me to become a scholar, not a trick pony with a matching, trick pony maiden. If I had not joined the ranks of the army, I would have only traveled to Minas Tirith for the library."

"What is the name of your caretaker, the scholar that has made you a reclusive tome reader? He may not be your sire, but you will inevitably inherit his station. Most scholars come from noble families or wealthy merchant leagues, you know. It leaves me curious, little khôr."

The youth rolled his eyes at the officer's last comment. "Iorlas; and who his father is, I don't know," he said dryly.

Gárwine blinked. "Iorlas? I have heard that name in passing many times in Gondor. It is said he is one of the greatest scholars of our age, and his family well-regarded. I believe Amras has spoken of his sire; he was an honorable warrior and a knowledgeable man, who turned to the written word in old age, thus abandoning his sword. The weapon itself is a relic, for the family has an ancestry far-reaching into the noble past of Númenor. Have you seen this sword?"

Istuion shook his head, "No, I haven't. Iorlas doesn't enjoy speaking of his past, though at times he has let slip a few tales of his childhood in Minas Tirith. From what little I know, he was chased out of the White City."

"I did not know about that. Though, I think you should talk to Amras. My life has taken me between Rohan and Gondor, and I will admit I am more Rohirric than Gondorian at times in my heart of hearts."

The youth nodded, chuckling fondly, finishing off the last explosive jar. "I'll take your advice, Gárwine. Maybe then I'll understand why Iorlas has seemed to be far away at times, as if his spirit was left behind somewhere in the mist."

Grabbing the jars, Istuion carefully went about stashing them inside a canvas sack. The Steward-sons seemed to have noticed, as they now stood around the young captain and a frustrated Ranulf was grumbling his way out of the meeting house.

"Finished, Captain Istuion?" asked Faramir.

"I am," the youth confirmed, glancing at Gárwine, gripping the sack. "All that is left to do now is to wait for dawn to break. I should get what rest I can before it's time, or I will be quite useless."

"Just make sure not to maim any man that has to wake you," he jested.

"You should have listened to Ohtar! By God, it was not on purpose, Lord Faramir!" The youth objected, immediately jumping to defend himself.

Boromir raised a brow, "Should I dare ask what it is you two are speaking of? Or should I leave this alone for the sake of our collective dignity?"

"Istuion's second had warned me not to wake him before dawn when I had come to take this young captain to the meeting house for the first time. I ignored him, and went on to have a boot launch me into the shallows of the Anduin and a wildly angry officer yelling without rhyme or reason," Faramir explained with amusement.

His elder brother's eyes widened, turning to Istuion. "You managed to send my brother into the Anduin with a single kick? God, Istuion, you are a strange fellow!"

"I am going to leave this conversation now before I say something I shall regret. Goodnight, milords," Istuion said shortly, quickly moving for the door. He could hear the men laughing behind him.

Closing the half-rotten door, the youth strode away towards the shoreline as fast as his stride could take him, wracked with both weariness and internal conflict. Istuion didn't need to be reminded about the unintentional tossing of the youngest Steward-son into the shallows of the Anduin. The very memory of it invoked plenty of reaction from Istuion, and not of the kind she― _he―_ needed. _Ignore the fact your commander is a handsome man who seems to be one of the few extremely open-minded people you've met besides Iorlas, your subordinates, and a couple others. You've been surrounded by decently attractive men everyday since you joined the Gondorian Army three years ago. You've been surrounded by extremely attractive eastern women and managed to control yourself. Get a grip_. She had men to take care of, to insure they lived long enough to see their families, and the promise of returning to Iorlas. Getting sidetracked by a Steward-son, who was above her pay grade in more ways than one, would not help anyone. After all, she wasn't someone who crumpled at the slightest sign of romantic interest. She was _above_ it, and would choose who she loved herself when it was the right time to allow herself that love. Rationalization was definitely needed if she was going to continue her work.

 _I am Istuion, son of none, ward of Iorlas, Captain of the Southwestern Ithilien rangers. I am a fatherless young man of twenty-seven, friend of the Blue Wizards, the_ mashetani _eater, the_ magharibi wawindaji—

"Captain!"

The youth jerked to a stop, blinking back into awareness. It was well into the twilight hour, with only the moon, the gleaming stars of Manwë, and scattered torches providing any semblance of light. Standing before him in the debris-riddled landscape, grasping a freshly-lit torch, was Ohtar. The light from the fiery torch casted eerie shadows on the elder man's face, highlighting the inked swallow dancing about drawn tree branches on his neck. His expression was urgent.

"Ohtar? What is it?"

Istuion's second glanced around, then looked back at his captain. "Come with me, Captain, I will tell you on the way," he said lowly.

Eyes narrowing, the youth followed after Ohtar. They passed a number of cluttered soldier garrisons, their watchers clutching desperately to lit torches in a weak effort to dispel their paranoia of the deep twilight. The ambush of the former front line garrison at the darkest hour of the night still haunted many of the men; especially the superstitious ones. Weaving their way through the debris and away from the soldiers, Ohtar turned his head to Istuion.

"A noble falcon of Amrûnbair arrived while you were locked in the meeting house with the officers," reported the second, his voice a low rumble. "And the _Ithryn Luin_ have sent you a lengthy message filled with many concerns."

Istuion's eyes widened, dropping the sack of explosive jars at his feet. "The blue wizards?! Do you have the message with you?!"

Ohtar's hand procured a folded bulk of parchment from underneath his jerkin, and the youth snatched it immediately from his hands. Unfolding it quickly and leaning closer to Ohtar for better light, Istuion began to read the scratchy handwriting of who he assumed was Alatar, the more serious of the two blue wizards.

* * *

 _Learned hunter,_

 _News has finally come to me, after near two and a half weeks, that you and your men no longer hold station at the Poros outpost. Myself and Pallando are deeply concerned over this development, though I feel that saying "concerned" in this message is an understatement of our distress. What is the Steward of Gondor, that fool Denethor, thinking in allocating you away from the Poros? You have been reporting our news to him, bringing him food, supplies, and weapons from the East. Does he not thank you, or us wizards, for what we slave over? Just what does that Steward have in his head to think it was a good plan to leave the Poros outpost manned with barely enough men, let alone take away his secret ambassador to the East?_

 _I have more news from Akram sul-Pharazôn_ _and Jelaní. The bands of Far Harad have continued to deny the Mouth of Sauron's offerings, though it is only thanks to your influence and the fact that the Deceiver's emissary doesn't realize that gifting wandering herdsmen Khandian rice and crops is an insult. He would have done better gifting them cows, even if they are a weak equivalent to the antelope they trade in the Far Harad._

 _The clansmen of Harad and Khand, lead by Akram sul-Pharazôn alongside the head of the Hathol clan, were finally victorious in reclaiming Sturlurtsa Khand, the Pale City of the East. They were quick to liberate the residents, destroy the malevolent temples of worship (sacrificial slaughter, more like) dedicated to Sauron, purge the place of the dark Maia's followers, and reinstate their claim on the Pale City. I can say that without your influence, however slight you think it was, Sturlurtsa Khand would not have been reclaimed. A number of the clan heads demand you earn your share in the glory. There is talk of making you a clan head. For which clan, I am unsure. Pallando has been ridiculously emotional since Akram's cousin has taken back his birthright and now sits upon the throne of the Pale City. Akram himself asks that I write this: It is your turn to bring back your Western king to his own pale throne. The fellow is eagerly awaiting a reply on that._

 _But nonetheless, Akram and Jelaní are very much aware of your absence from the Poros outpost. They too are questioning the sanity of Ecthelion II's son, but also inquire after the Steward's sons. I myself wonder after them. Have you met them there in Osgiliath, and if so, are they at least of the right mind?_

Alatar's hard-to-read scrawl fades off, until he suddenly picks up again, the ink heavier than the previously written script.

 _This long-winded message, beyond a communication owed and long overdue, is a message of grave warning: You must return your men and yourself to the Poros outpost. With Akram's recent progress with the clansmen and loyalty of Jelaní's kinsmen to our cause, Sauron's believers here in the East are now pressured to either overtake the Poros outpost and secure it for their "God" or gather within the mountain walls of Mordor beside orcs. As you well know, they'd rather kill their fellow man than spend an extended period of time amongst what they believe are mashetani; fallen spirits turned demons._

 _Word of you has also reached their ears. Talk of the magharibi wawindaji, her twin dagger-teeth that eat mashetani, with murky three-color eyes, leave Sauron nervous. Something about you stirs his fears, and I have only heard of one man who could instill fear into him. You are no Isildur or one of his heirs, but he apparently has found some reason to fear._

 _Whatever you are to him, and whatever you are to us, it does not matter. You must return to the Poros outpost. Let the Deceiver stir like a worried homemaker, and come back to the border._

 _In hope,_

 _ **Morinehtar**_

 _P.S. reply to this when you can, as the falcon will not leave until you give him his burden. Do remember to feed him._

* * *

Istuion stared blankly at the signature at the bottom of the page, thoughts buzzing erratically in his skull. Somehow she wasn't surprised that Sauron was reacting to her existence. She knew the second she openly chose to take a serious role in the upcoming war, she wasn't going to be able to stay below radar for long. Something about her appearance in Middle-Earth had always been… Bizarre. Obviously it wasn't normal to end up going between worlds, but the way… Well, it hadn't seemed average by fiction standards. So, in all, Istuion now knew, absolutely, that she― _he_ ―firmly had the power to influence the timeline of Middle-Earth. Hell, she was now apparently a major player within the scheme of things! Just, nobody quite knew except her and those in the East.

The fact it was happening nearly had him laughing, if he dared to indulge in such dark humor.

Otherwise, the letter basically left him embarrassed and worried. Had those three years really made that much of a difference? Istuion had only done the right thing: Instead of shooting all Easterners on sight, he had chosen to meet with them in person and tentatively speak to them on as equal ground as possible without dying. He guessed, looking back, that Karma was continuing to repay him for the good deed. The young captain had the honor of meeting many of the head clansmen of Harad and Khand, offering aid when he could and fighting alongside them. Istuion even had the chance to meet and become close friends with Akram sul-Pharazôn and Jelaní, two of the most powerful men in the East, though that hadn't always been so. There were many stories there, but it was very good to know that all the help he provided them had proven to be beneficial.

But Istuion grimaced. "How will I explain this to the Steward-sons? We attack the orcs tomorrow and yet the Easterlings are aiming to claim the Poros outpost for Sauron! This war is becoming a right mess, Ohtar."

"Lord Faramir will perhaps be convinced, and Lord Boromir often agrees with his brother's council. There may be a chance for us, but it will have to wait until we have purged the ruins of the orcs," spoke the youth's second.

Istuion nodded in agreement, folding the message up and stuffing it into his own jerkin. "I will reply to this after my plan succeeds tomorrow. If I do not survive setting the jars and igniting them, have Walda reply in my place; and, take over my command, Son of Erland. I trust no one else with my station, and the men won't listen to any other beyond Walda and Hallam."

"It will not come to that, Captain. Your plans will work as they always do, and together we shall persuade the Steward-sons. If not… Well, few can tell a man from Southwestern Ithilien what to do," Ohtar said humorously, smirking.

"Right you are, Ohtar! Now, we must head back to the shore. Dawn isn't too far away, and I would like to be able to swim straight tomorrow," declared the youth contentedly, grabbing the sack of explosives and walking beside his second into the night.

* * *

The sun had barely broken over the mountain walls of Mordor, shadowed as it was, when the Southwestern rangers carefully placed themselves amongst the jagged rocks close to the Iant Sollen. Captain Istuion stood beside Hallam, carefully placing himself in a crevice near the sailor's left shoulder. The pack of explosive jars were cradled against Damrod's back, his free hand firmly holding the hilt of his sword. Ohtar, Walda, and the rest of his men strategically scattered themselves about, heeding the urging of their captain when deciding their positions.

"Ohtar, take the leftward place in correlation to us; make sure those young soldiers Boromir gave us are prepared for their first battle," he ordered without argument. "I can't stand the idea of them dead, so make sure they stay alive. Walda, to the right of us. When we draw out the orcs from the ruins, that clearing below will be the pit of chaos you'll shoot into. Make sure those sons of Hemlós don't waste their arrows; they are the ones carrying the extra stock for the rest of the garrison."

Nodding in assent, they swiftly took their places amongst the sharp rubble, taking to the orders with a practiced ease that Faramir quickly noticed. He and his brother had donned their Gondorian armor over their jerkins, discarding cloaks and replacing wool for chainmail. Gárwine, Amras, and Hirgon had their soldiers well behind them, armed and tense for a charge, while Ranulf and Arahad were left to guard the shoreline and the main operation of the Gondorian host. The part-Rohirric lord had outfitted himself in his strange mix of armor, the shoulder plates and the helm crowning his head distinctly covered in equine motifs while his chest and leg plates were decorated in Gondorian swan feathers and tree branches. Grinning like a madman, Gárwine seemed the most eager of them all for the upcoming battle.

"To glory in death, Lord Boromir," he said with gusto, his voice low but quite pleased.

The Steward-son nodded, smiling slightly. "To glory in death, Lord Gárwine, if such a fate is given to us this day."

Gárwine himself chuckled quietly, "It will most likely not, I believe, but it is tradition in Rohan to say it. Little khôr's plan shall work, and fate will be forced to wait a little longer for us to enter the Halls of Mandos."

Boromir raised a brow. "You have much faith in a man so young."

"Do you not? Though I have not known him long, my lord, I can tell he is of quick mind and quicker wit. I advise that you do not underestimate him, or you will find yourself more than simply surprised."

They fell silent then, and Istuion spotted the standing orcs changing watch ahead of him within the clearing. "Do you see them, Hallam?"

"I can v'ry well smell 'em, Capp'n, if that gives ye' comfu'rt."

Nodding to himself, "Aim for the old watch, Hallam; the fresh replacement is still close enough to call for the orcs, and that is what we want."

Hallam carefully drew an arrow from his quiver, almost caressing the shaft of the projectile as he knocked it in place. Pulling back the string until it seemed near-bursting, Hallam heard Istuion sharply whisper, "Now!"

The bow sung its muted twang as the arrow flew true, spearing the socket of the orc that had been ready to relieve himself from watch. His replacement let out a roar of shock, the call echoing off the rocks. Ohtar, upon seeing the creature fall, cried out to the soldiers behind. " **Ready yourselves!** "

"Damrod, Anborn, to me!" Istuion called over the growing uproar from both sides of the field. Gárwine wasted no time in rallying the soldiers around him, the other captains following suit. Faramir stood tensely beside his brother, sword drawn as Boromir seemed to suddenly command the the host of Gondor with his battlecry. Orcs, both goblin and Uruk, poured forth from the ruin shipyard of Minas Numen, snarls renting their faces with wicked weaponry in their grasp.

" **For the Steward, for Gondor!** " the elder Steward-son bellowed to the oncoming orcs, the charge following in his wake. Faramir ran beside his sibling, sword spilling the first blood as it drove through an Uruk's poorly-protected stomach.

The clash of opposing sides was incendiary, in that a half dozen soldiers died within the first onslaught and three dozen orcs fell in kind. Damrod, the one who was carrying explosives, rushed to follow Captain Istuion, with Hallam and Anborn hot on his heels as they maneuvered erratically about to avoid oncoming orcs. Swords and arrows were flying, swinging haphazardly as inhuman squeals of agony and howls of pain filled the air. A muddle of crimson and black blood painted the ground, bodies already piling beneath hastening feet. Gárwine could be seen tearing through the enemies, the black horsehair mounted upon his helm flapping freely, laughing obstreperously as the Uruk ranks parted for him in horrified bewilderment before suffering a gory end. What had formerly been a quiet field of rubble became a screaming bloodbath within moments, and the small detachment of rangers nimbly wove through the disorder. Faramir witnessed brief snatches of them, catching sight of a silvered glint at Istuion's waist, before swallowed again by the madness of conflict. He and his brother shared a look, before swinging their longswords simultaneously into a pair of orcs.

"There!" Istuion called, pointing towards a strange grouping of stones that gathered about the shore. Framing it were great columns of rock, jagged and unforgiving in their sharpness. No boat could land unless to suffer pain of death, let alone a clumsy-bulky orc swimmer, and beneath the water laid the hidden Iant Sollen.

Anborn, who glanced apprehensively between the treacherous shoreline and the battle ensuing only yards away, couldn't help but ask, "We are swimming in that? The broken jaw of Minas Numen?"

"Unfort'nately yes, Anborn. I hope yu'r sea legs ar' good enough. Otherwise, yu'r gonna' spear yer'self on one of 'em rocks," answered Hallam.

"Wrong kind of legs, Hallam. Damrod, the bag," ordered Istuion, holding out a hand for the sack of explosive jars.

Damrod unshouldered it, and passed the haversack off to the captain. The youth carefully set it down before messing with his sword belt. That and his cloak were quickly taken away, displaying a pair of extremely detailed daggers resting on his waist. Their silver-plated sheaths curved like horns, the engraving crawling from tip to hilt almost hypnotic in design. The handles of the weapons were polished ivory, perfectly smooth and beautifully maintained. With caring hands, the young captain placed them upon his pile of effects. Upon straightening his jerkin and withdrawing the message from the wizards, he was happy that he had taken them off, ensuring the possessions would not suffer from the water.

"Capp'n?" Hallam choked, looking ready to have an aneurysm. Anborn and Damrod looked between the two in confusion.

Intuion rolled his eyes, sighing. _It's not as if I'm going to completely strip myself bare! We're on the clock for god's sake, and I'm not stupid._ "I don't know about you fellows, but I'm not about to let river water rust my weapons or soak my cloak. Now strip off what you don't need, and get ready for a dip!" he demanded.

Hallam seemed to calm down by that point, easily piling his own collection of things beside Istuion's, before opening the canvas sack of explosive jars. Anborn and Damrod hurriedly dealt with theirs, though they desperately tried to maintain their pride despite their fumbling.

Pulling a jar out, "These are very simple: you place them firmly in between what's left of the bridge, and you turn them _clockwise_ , which means generally in a rightward twist," the youth dictated, "You have but _moments_ to swim away, though thankfully the Anduin's current will help in going that direction."

"Good to know tha' Ulmo's on our side, Capp'n," remarked the sailor, grabbing a handmade mortar.

"Yes, yes," the young captain brushed off. He didn't mean to sound impatient, but he was rushed to get their operation done and join in the fighting. Istuion never took joy in leaving his men to fight without him. "After you place the jars, I'll give you a signal like this," his arm violently cut the air in a horizontal line, hand fisted. "And you will twist the lids and swim away immediately. Understood?"

The three men nodded in affirmation, two jars in each hand. "Good. Let's go for a swim!"

Before any of them could react, Istuion made a sprinting dive into the Anduin, mortars tucked against his jerkin. The air was nearly knocked out of her from the sensation of her wrappings completely soaking― _err, his body freezing in the chilly water_. His eyes mildly burned from the water, but it didn't take him long to adjust and spot the ancient bridge. It was a precarious underwater ruin if he ever saw one, with sections of it seemingly floating in the middle of the river over the riverbed. A few scant orc skeletons, identified by their rusted black armor and horrendous dental work, littered the muddy bottom. More than a couple schools of fish, such like salmon, trout, pike, perch, carp, bream, and many more commonly sought-after fish, swam by with the steady current. _To hell with rations, I should make Hallam carve us fishing poles and get dinner from the Anduin!_ Istuion hoped their upcoming destruction of the Iant Sollen wouldn't disrupt the fish too badly; dining on freshly fire-smoked salmon sounded beyond delightful in the possible future.

Pushing his way against the current and feeling the water fluctuate with the arrival of his subordinates, the youth determinedly kicked his person towards the bridge. Istuion wedged his boots into the surrounding wreckage, anchoring himself. He dug about in the crumbling rock, scraping his nails into the stone and burrowing a hole. _Whatever this bridge had been crafted from does not hold up well in water for more than a few years; is it volcanic-based stone, or is it ceramic-based brick?_ Time and river water had buffeted the rubble for so long, the young captain could hardly tell by sight what it exactly was. The young captain had a sinking suspicion the number of jars he had made may have actually been excessive, and that placing a scant few about could easily bring the deteriorating bridge down.

Shoving his first jar into the burrowed hole he created, Istuion quickly swam further down the bridge to dig yet another space. In the distance, Damrod, Anborn, and Hallam could be seen doing the same. Shoving his last jar into the excavated gap, Istuion stretched his arms to grasp both jar lids. Glancing to the side, the ranger captain saw the other men watching. He raised his hand, fisted, then cut the water diagonally.

They twisted the lids. Time quickly became very precious.

Twenty eight seconds had Istuion blink bewilderedly in the river water. One of the jar lids wasn't budging.

Nineteen seconds had Istuion's hazel eyes widen.

Thirteen seconds had the three other men already swimming away with the current, but Hallam realized something was wrong.

Eleven seconds had Istuion pushing off from the bridge, abruptly frantic. Something was wrong with one of the jars, and it probably wasn't good _at all._

Six seconds had Istuion only three feet away. He had swam below the strong current of the Anduin, which was near the surface, and he prayed that the thick hardbound copy of _Wuthering Heights_ he left under his jerkin would protect him from any debris that could possibly pierce his chest. He hated the book, and only took it with him that day because it serve as extra padding against any blow an enemy would try to deal.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—_

Rock exploded, water pressure and oxygen slammed into Istuion, the book over his heart took the sword-like shard of rock for him. Air was driven from his lungs.

There was only darkness and the brief flash of a hand outstretched before there was no more.


	5. Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Happy new year! I'm extremely sorry for the very long delay! Thanks to those who reviewed, especially _14Phantom_! Your feedback was **A+** , my friend, and I hope you keep reviewing. To the one anonymous reviewer who had a good question: The explanation as to why books from our world exist in Middle-Earth and how Istuion ended up specifically in Middle-Earth will be done in the future. You will find out, and it will be a big deal (probably). There are hints of an answer in this chapter, in fact.

Anyway, the usual disclaimers: All written poems and works referenced or quoted are not mine, the characters (except the OCs) are not mine, and this possible scenario is mine (but not the world). I would also like to comment that I have now headed each chapter with a general idea of the time frame, since it's going to get complicated now. I recommend rereading this story, because I did some editing and it's been awhile since I posted a chapter. And, well, it's a good story to reread. Here come flashbacks/the beginning of Istuion's backstory in the East!

P.S. "Spider's Web" is the Internet. It was the only way Istuion could translate it into Westron. Don't hate her for trying. "God," just to remind you all, is a Westron translation of Eru among Men.

Read, review, and enjoy! This story has an estimated 2,266 views, people. I know you're out there. I want to try and get this baby up to fifty or more on reviews before I hit chapter ten!

* * *

 **Chapter Five:** **_Ozymandias_** **by Percy Bysshe Shelley**

* * *

 _3015th Year of the Third Age; the Poros Outpost, late summer…_

* * *

The landscape framing either side of the Poros River, from the crags of Ephel Dúath to the Ethir Anduin delta, was near flat and covered in either desert or half-dead grassland. Trees and rocky outcroppings randomly dotted the expanse, offering small patches of shade and no chance for firewood. Unless one was crazed enough to cut down a rare tree selfishly, the landscape that teetered between life and dry desolation rarely changed. Only in the spring months, when the Poros River overflowed and small clusters of clouds brought light showers of rain, did the flats turn a muted green. Many of the trees were dry and often scant on leaves this time of year, making the few leaning willows lining the shoreline of the Poros the healthiest in the area. Despite this, there were many animals hiding in the tall grasses and making homes in hidden burrows. Herbs and edible plants were plentiful, most notably by the Poros shoreline, and fish could be easily caught if one was brave enough to try their hand at using a net.

Yet Istuion, son of none, stood quietly beneath the curtaining branches of a willow with no interest in the landscape's bounty. He had long since stripped down to his tunic and trousers, the light leather armor, cloak, bastard sword, and vambraces set aside, dirt and grime staining the fabrics. A crudely-made shovel was tightly held in his grasp, light and shadow playing over his form from between the overhanging limbs of the crooked tree. Hazel eyes, blank and non-reactionary, stared down at pit dug six feet deep. Something laid wrapped, in sheer cream linen and tied with leather strips, to the side, unmoving.

 _I'm a fucking idiot._

She should have thought her decisions through better than she had. Iorlas had begged her—No, _ordered_ her—to stay. The ghosts that seemed to always haunt his steps had possessed him, overtaking him, demanding that his ward, his daughter-son from another world entirely, not follow the path Iorlas' sire had. Did these books, stories that mirrored the history of Middle-Earth and spoke of the future, matter enough to throw her life away? She was a woman; a strong, independent, and brilliant young woman. Wasting such a unique creature on war would be a crime, even if she wore men's clothes and hid her breasts, flirted with the baker's daughters. An ever-creative mind for languages, hard-earned skill with swordsmanship, eyes unlike any living being that walked Arda… Iorlas could not let something so precious to him, however peculiar she was, become rank with the darkness of bloodshed. He wanted her to be a scholar like him, to eventually make her way to Minas Tirith to reclaim his sire's estate and successfully marry. Maybe, perhaps, to another scholar. There was also the men of Rohan, who appreciated women who could defend hearth and home. The options for his ward's marriage were extensive. She should have listened to him.

 _But I was a fucking idiot, and I fought him on it._

She had argued, bickered, yelled, and nearly screamed at the scholar. The War of the Ring was coming! It would come to their doorstep, it would come wrapped in black and red, it would come in the form of Umbar pirates. Sauron still existed, he still lived, and the ring was in the hands of a little halfling someplace to the West. She couldn't simply let the real war, one that could spell the doom of the Free Peoples, come to her and the town. She had to take part, to influence, to carve a place for herself. She'd read all the stories, read numerous alternate tales from the Spider's Web. She had more stories to find, to collect, and to treasure. She could make it. It was wrong for Iorlas to doubt her. She already acted like a man, she might as well work as a man! She was restless! She was wild! It was not improper from where she was from.

 _And I just about broke Iorlas as a result. I'm a fucking idiot, so here I am._

She left behind Iorlas, and thus left behind all vestiges of feminism. The few feminine behaviors she had were cast away for the male role to truly take its place. She was a he, Istuion, a son of none but the ward of a former Minas Tirith scholar. He wished goodbye to those he had made friends with in the town by the Cirith. The blacksmith, the two rowdy young men who lived by the bakery, the baker himself, the numerous mariners, the few merchants who were always seen at the docks by noon, one of the many friendly northmen who was in town at the time, the attractive young daughters of the baker Miralwyn and her sibling Niralwyn. He kissed her goodbye with an unspoken regret in his eyes, and with hidden fear of the road ahead. The scholar's mare was packed, harnessed, and ready to go. Dressed in traveler's clothes and armed with his bow, bastard sword, and a single knife hidden in his left boot, Istuion left. The road was long, and encounters with highwaymen nearly waylaid him more than once, but he made the journey easily. His restlessness abated. Istuion didn't shrink away from roughing it in the wild. All the while, many stories from his world were found, in small towns to strange hollowed trees within thickened woods. It was bizarre, but he feverishly treasured the books. The White City emerged from the mountains, gleaming in the morning sun. There, he would become part of the Gondorian Army.

 _It was fucking ridiculous that I was so eager, and look where it got me._

Being issued the garb of a ranger, with light leather armor, a declined offer of chainmail, a crude sword left untouched on the table, Istuion felt elation. He'd made it, and now it was done. With his traveler's cloak on his shoulders, dressed in leather armor, and his bastard sword at his hip, he was ready to take on the occupation of a fighter. The plan could soon be implemented, and it would go smoothly. No one had even looked twice at him, pull him aside to question his sex. Nobody knew Istuion was in actuality a woman, and he would keep it that way. He would continue collecting stories, those books that would bizarrely appear, sending them to Iorlas for safekeeping. Make a difference.

 _That was a fat lie._

Many good things came to pass. Meeting his garrison of rangers, slowly learning about Southwestern Ithilien, training to better master the bow, becoming quick friends with Walda, Ohtar, Hallam, and Captain Duinhir. Fighting amongst friends as a friendly spar, defeating Duinhir, rising to the surprising position of second, becoming _a part_ of the garrison. Istuion felt he had found his place, that he was in his element. But then the rain of arrows fell, the gates of the stone outpost crashed forth, and all hell broke loose. The moves came easily, the death blows pouring out red blood and entrails. Why was it so simple to end a man's life? She— _he_ —had killed the highwaymen who tried to attack her on the way to Minas Tirith. Why was this conflict so different?

 _Because good men died. There were never any casualties that mattered to me when I made the journey to the White City. Only men seeking to steal and kill me were the casualties; casualties of their own poor choices in life. A cruel way of thinking, but that was how I saw it. I made it alive with my mare still living. Good men died, and I am a naive idiot to have ignored the fact that people die._

Walda had been quite an attractive enough man, a budding scholar from a minor noble family in Southwestern Ithilien, though four years older than Istuion, and the conflict had left his face deeply scarred. What beauty he once had was marred by two gaping wounds across his visage. Iorlas would have loved it if she had chosen to marry him. Hallam had shown himself to be a hollow-eyed man when he killed Easterlings. They were his people, but they also weren't. He was stuck between worlds, just as Gárwine was stuck between Rohan and Gondor; just as Istuion was of Middle-Earth but not at all part of it. Ohtar had been blindsided and struck to the bone along his arm. Duinhir lost his life, and his final whispered words shattered the youth. The battle shattered everything that Istuion thought he knew. He should have thought his decisions through better than he had.

 _I knew fr-from the moment I truly loo-looked upon you standing in the water, you were a woman. You w-will make a fine wi-wife to a strong w-wa-warrior, Istuion… Lead the m-me-men in my pl-pla-place w-we… well…_

" _You were goddamn stubborn bastard_ , Duinhir," he muttered angrily, in English, squeezing the handle of the shovel.

His gaze burned as he stared into the pit, stinging the edges of his eyes and blurring his sight. Unashamed tears dribbled down into the open hole. The open grave.

Istuion ignored the rustling sound of footsteps approaching behind him, the noise of willow branches being shoved aside like a drape drawn away from an open window. A presence stopped beside the new captain of the garrison.

"He was a good man," Ohtar rumbled, "And a greater captain."

"I was a fool, and he was a victim of it."

The large man turned to the youth, "Istuion, my friend, I strongly doubt that. You are young still; the world is not something that must ride your shoulders absolutely."

 _You don't even understand how wrong you are, big guy_ , he thought.

"Perhaps," Istuion remarked blankly, "But now he lies dead and wrapped up like an oversized parcel and I'm captain. I would say I'm bearing the brunt of the world's weight now… the weight of the lives I am charged to guide and keep alive."

"Then it is a good thing the Duinhir left his position to the only woman among the ranks of the Ithilien rangers," Ohtar smiled sadly, if not in an ironic fashion, "Because only a strong yet caring soul full of unwavering guidance and a woman's intuition could wrestle these rangers."

Andr— _Istuion_ bodily flinched, shoulders stiff. His posture was reminiscent of a statue. _He_ was then a _she_ , as if a spell was suddenly broken, and hazel eyes blazed with a light that was unlike the fire in the former young man's eyes. Unbridled, foreign, undeniably willful. Slight curves amongst the muscle were evident now, as leather and cloak had been shed previously, and so were the very minute hints of breasts. There was no shame in her posture, only defensive weariness. None would have noticed, unless they went looking.

"How long have you known?" she managed to spit out. It came out mildly bitter, but not accusatory.

"Duinhir noticed that you always separated from us when the garrison went to bathe. I had told him to leave you be, but he followed in your shadow. The poor man came back shocked and near-frantic over the fact his favorite young man had _breasts_. He truly looked upon you, and the realization gave him quite the start.

"Myself, Walda, and Hallam were there for it, dealt with our own shock, then accepted it in stride. It didn't take long for the rest of the men to learn of it, as Hallam can be a useless gossip at times as you know, and all of us simply decided to continue as if nothing had changed; for nothing has. You are still able to send us sprawling on our backs, and you proved yourself by avenging Duinhir; by killing that slandering Easterling. Most of the men saw no reason to dispute your right to being our leader because of that, and those slim few who did not agree have since quickly realized that they would easily lose to you if they challenged your place. And, again, you did avenge Duinhir.

"So, Captain, we are with you. You do not have to carry this role alone, and the men of this garrison will not let you attempt to do it by yourself either way."

The ranger finished his speech with a fond smile, a twinkle in his eye that managed to bring a shaky smile to Istuion's face.

"I'm younger than everyone in the entire garrison."

"Age does not always matter."

"I will have wild ideas, and the men will have to follow my orders implicitly."

"We were already doing that, if you did not truly realize that Duinhir agreed with every fortification plan you came up with, even if he did put his own mad twist to it."

"I want you as my second."

"I accept."

Istuion almost wanted to grin, but the grief and self-hatred clung to her heart. The pair stood silent, the new captain shifting on her feet and lifting the shovel. She glanced to her second.

"Could you… " The youth had to pause, to rein in her overflow of emotions. Words were choking her throat. "Could you help me bury him?"

The sincere smile Ohtar gave Istuion could not be properly described with words, either in Westron or English. Tender, caring, honest, powerful, soft… it was everything the youth needed and said everything that needed to be said.

"It would be my honor, Captain."

* * *

"What have the men done with the Easterling corpses?"

 _She_ was a _he_ again, with the illusion put back in place out of habit and careful protection of whom Istuion really was at the core. Maybe the passage of time would allow him to open himself up and let the _her_ be exposed, the foreign woman from another place well beyond Arda's understanding, but it was not the time or the place. Many of the Southwestern Ithilien men were wounded, five were dead, and there were numerous Easterling corpses littering the outpost and the area surrounding it. Istuion and his immediate advisors, Walda, Hallam, and Ohtar, stood with him around a rickety wooden table. Sketched maps and important pieces of parchment were strewn across its surface, candles placed strategically about to provide suitable light. Bandages wrapped Walda's face, Hallam hovered worriedly next to him, and Ohtar's arm was covered in linen to protect the painful wound.

"The men are still piling their bodies outside the outpost, Captain. Any weapons we find have also been piled, but in our pitiful armory," replied Walda.

"Have the fallen men been buried?"

The gathered rangers minutely flinched at the blunt question, but Ohtar responded nonetheless. "They have; the small gathering of trees west of here now serve as their final resting place."

Istuion nodded. "Good. How many more Easterling corpses are there left to collect?"

Walda shrugged, "I am unsure, Captain. Ten, perhaps ten and four. I have been occupied with my injury, to be honest."

The youth smiled faintly at the would-be scholar turned ranger. "It's alright, my friend." The man bowed his head, sharing in the smile.

"But, I have reason to ask," the young captain said firmly, "For I want the men to strip the bodies of all their effects. Clothes, armor, weapons, jewelry, all of it."

"An' what in tha' name of Ulmo is 'yer reason, Capp'n? Why dishonor them in sucha' way, to take what they'll want in tha' next wu'rld away from them?" Hallam almost demanded. Istuion grimaced slightly, but did not shift away from the man's ire.

"Duinhir had asked Walda to record all happenings here at this outpost since the day you all were first stationed here. You must have been aware of this. These papers," Istuion pointedly shuffled the parchment on the table, "Show a distinct pattern. When this outpost suffers an attack, another wave of them come within either a day, three days, or a week. Sometimes the enemy is immediately hostile upon being fired upon, and then some are simply killed on sight before their armed men can strike. This ranger garrison has scavenged dead bodies before, finding food supplies and other fine trinkets amongst the ones that were not overtly hostile. Have any of you, or Duinhir, ever questioned this? Some of these Easterlings sound like traders or peacemakers, not killers, coming to the outpost. I know it is possible that they could have been spies, or perhaps a ruse to attack, but the described form of dress Walda gives is starkly different than what the hostile Easterlings wear."

"What are you suggesting? That all of us should not have followed Denethor's orders? We are to shoot any and all Easterlings who dare to approach the outpost. He is the Steward of Gondor, and we are rangers under his command; we do as he says," Walda spoke.

Istuion narrowed his eyes, looking around at the faces of the gathered men. "I learned at a young age that Gondor is part of the Free Peoples who oppose Sauron. The word _free_ implies a right to liberties those not free do not have. We are allowed opinions, we are allowed to have a difference of belief, and we are allowed to make our own judgements. Am I wrong?"

None of them answered.

"Then, I will say that I do not wish to kill more people than I ever have to. I know this is my first true battle with alongside you, not a small skirmish or a sparring match, but I cannot bear to have a future where innocent blood stains my sword. We will wait, we will strip the enemy, and I will go out with Walda as my translator to meet with anyone who comes in relative peace. Be they enemy or would-be ally, I will wait and speak."

Hallam shook his head angrily. His hands slammed the wood loudly, the flames of the candles flickering skittishly. "I cannot agree ta' this!"

The young captain yelled right back, patience broken. "What do you want me to do then, Hallam? Prepare for another battle? For what, a damaged outpost atop a shallow hill and wounded men? To spill more blood over this god forsaken land?!"

Istuion watched the ranger clench his hands against the table. He may not have known the three exceptionally long, but he knew them surprisingly well within barely a month. Hallam had a complicated background, and his heritage made it hard for him to live within Gondorian society. He wasn't an idiot; the men of the garrison respected Hallam as much as they feared him. His dark eyes, dark hair, tanned skin, and generally rough demeanor was different from the standard Gondorian warrior. The man was a seafarer, half-Umbar, and the best archer he'd ever seen. The xenophobia amongst the rangers was _very_ real. He and Walda had been childhood friends, their parents both wives to seamen. One, a minor nobleman's daughter and heir to a coastal trading league, the other an average fish wife. Beyond that, Istuion knew little else. Ohtar had never been a man of the docks. He lived on the outskirts around the coastal cities of Southwest Ithilien. He and his large family served as farmers. One of his very distant cousins, strangely enough, was an Arnorian who swore fealty to one of the the Dúnedain chieftains and joined their ranks. The young captain understood that he had no place acting like he knew them. Again, he had only been with the ranger squadron for barely a month!

But… Istuion couldn't handle the idea of killing more men, more humans. He was already beginning to feel the weight of their phantoms.

The youth sighed, the air exhaling from his lungs slowly. "I know I'm not Duinhir, and I know I barely know you all. I've only been with this small battalion for little over a month, and already I've been appointed captain. Please, understand that we shouldn't have to kill men needlessly. We should only have to kill another man if he threatens us; we aren't murderers. You've been at this longer than I, and probably loathe the possibility that you've been slaying the wrong people with arrows better meant for aggressors than possible traders. I will take full responsibility for this, as it is my wild idea, and the Steward will simply have to deal with my transgressions while he is far away and locked up behind his safe stone halls."

Carefully, Istuion raised his gaze, looking to each ranger. "Are you with me? I won't hate you or discipline you if your choice deviates from mine."

Silence fell again. Hallam still clenched his hands again, almost as if he was kneading unseen dough between his calloused fingers. Walda, looking more like an Egyptian mummy in the face than a badly injured Ithilien ranger, glanced between Ohtar and Hallam. The son of Erland had barely spoken the entire meeting, and still he did not utter another word.

"If we do this," Hallam finally choked out, his hands stretched out flat on the table, "Then I ask I ac'ompany you and Walda. I… I grew up wit' tha' tongues of East, and I was tha' one who taught Walda. I also ask that I be allow'd ta' give the Easterlings the rights I wer' taught; I know they're our enemy, and they 'ave chosen to walk tha' path made by the Deceiver, but they're still my people… my father's people."

Istuion blinked. He was speechless. Hallam, the coarse sailor with archery skills equal to an elf, agreed? He would do this? He spoke _openly_ of which of his parents was from the East? _He_ was the one who taught Walda to speak the many dialects that riddled the deserts? The young captain glanced around the table, witnessing the expressions of his would-be friends, his subordinates. Their gazes were set with trust and faith, Hallam's burning with a determination to do right by his people and him. Istuion knew he was asking a lot of them, accusing them of being submissive soldiers, and painting their unconventional garrison in a less positive light. He did not think that the three men would hold such a connection with him; they had only known each other for a short time. They were raging mad. Completely and utterly insane.

The young captain blinked again, rapidly, pushing back the sudden desire to cry. _Christ, I can get emotional at the worst of times. Damn unbalanced hormones!_

Istuion bowed his head in assent to the half-Umbar ranger. "I welcome your company at my back when we walk out to meet the Easterlings, if they do come as I believe they will, and you have every right to do what you see fit with the Eastern corpses. I won't stop you, Hallam."

He watched as the sailor broke into a blinding smile for the first time since Duinhir's death. Ohtar smiled fondly, the first sign of reaction from him the entire meeting, and Walda nodded approvingly.

"Are those our orders, Captain?" Ohtar rumbled.

"Indeed they are. Meeting dismissed."

* * *

It was nearly five days later when they came to the outpost.

The Easterling bodies had been given their rights, in their tongues, by Hallam. All of them were promptly burned, a pyre of ash and bone left in the desert to be swallowed up by the dancing grains of sand on the breeze. All of their effects, from their underclothes to their decorative ornamentation, had been stripped from them, sorted, and placed in crates. The rangers injured in battle had time to heal, leaving only the seriously wounded to occupy the cool stone rooms within the outpost. Somehow, the trio and Istuion had become closer, as if a switch had been flipped and that single argument had made them comrades for life.

 _I will not go around denying that the heat of battle doesn't make you become closer with your fellow fighters. And, that avenging a leader they all cared deeply for doesn't engender further connection. In the end, I guess it isn't that surprising. I pretty much poured out my feelings on killing, and in offering them that, it showed them I trusted them. Since, I guess, real tough guys supposedly don't share their sensitive side?_

The four of them weren't real friends yet, however. The connection was there, a bridge half-built but not completely finished. Same could be said with most of the rangers under Istuion's command, as he had earned their trust but not their complete loyalty. There was a wild spark, but the fire needed oxygen to grow.

So the call came, brought by one of the sons of Hemlós, as Istuion sat in his officer's quarters within the Poros Outpost.

"Captain!" the middle brother, Henoth, called. He rushed into the room, nearly slamming into Ohtar's broad back.

The sons of Hemlós, let it be known, were triplets. All of them eerily mirrored each other in appearance. Extremely curly black hair, thin eyebrows, grey eyes, hairless chins, average height for an Ithilien man. The eldest, Hemtas, told Istuion that their mother always told them they were blessed by God. Apparently, identical twins and triplets were considered as magical and auspicious as they were in old European superstitions. Same could be said over the superstition surrounding the number three, which made the sons of Hemlós a trio with more than a few pieces of superstitious baggage attached to them. The race of Man in Middle-Earth were a painfully superstitious bunch of people. Much the same could apparently be said for dwarves, if Istuion remembered Tolkien's novels well enough. Not that he actually knew what those were. Right? Right.

Either way, the sons did not get along well with most of the garrison. But they liked Walda for his drawings, and respected Hallam for his archery skills. They listened to Istuion without question, due to his actions in avenging Duinhir. Ohtar simply scared them. The young captain was amused, watching Henoth frightfully back away from Ohtar before turning towards him.

"Captain Istuion, men of the East have been spotted on the horizon! Easterlings!" Henoth exclaimed. "They come on camels, they do, draped in gold and wrapped in white and blue!"

The young captain immediately rose from his chair. "What of Hallam? He is also on watch. What is his opinion?"

"He thinks they come in peace, though he could not say for certain. The enemy is known for its deceitful ways. He commented that the Easterlings are outfitted for a diplomatic entourage instead of an attack on this post. Too fine of clothes, he says, and blue is the color of the Hathol clan… whatever that means."

Istuion had no idea what significance the Hathol clan carried in terms of Easterling politics and social order. Hell, he knew nothing about the East. Hallam knew by far the most compared to all of them, due to his heritage and his repeated voyages between the coast cities of Umbar and Pelargir. Though, no one was supposed to know about those voyages. Somehow it had slipped out from Hallam in Istuion's presence. From what the young captain knew of Pelargir city law, any concrete evidence of sailing and trading with the merchants of Umbar would send the dissident a one-way trip to the hangman's noose. That was why experienced, paranoid sea merchants never let their foreign stock be sold in Pelargir's main markets. Steward Denethor had no patience for people who made allies of those who should be the enemies of Gondor.

 _I'm risking death in more than a few ways myself. That is, if any commanders or my fellow captains ever catch wind of this. While Denethor would demand that I be hung within seconds, commanders would be more than a little reluctant to hang a nobleman's heir. Or, more reluctant to hang a captain who has handled to Poros situation better than they could have. And, after all, the damn army needs every able-bodied warrior it can get._

The young captain turned to Walda, who sat in a chair opposite his at their rickety planning table. "Are you ready?"

"As much as I can be, Captain."

Istuion nodded roughly. "Then let us go."

Swiftly the room emptied. Istuion walked ahead, Walda in his shadow, followed by Ohtar and Henoth. The Poros outpost, though not exceptionally large in size, was built to efficiently utilize what space it had. There was a small yet towering keep at the heart, stone walls that could have men stationed upon it on all sides, a number of large barrack rooms for men to sleep, a modest officer's quarters, a cramped armory, and a thin courtyard that wound around the keep. There were small hallways that connected the officer's quarters to the barracks, various points on the stone wall, and to the centralized keep. The four made their way down one of those very hallways, exiting into the thin courtyard. Men rushed about gathering spare arrows, adjusting their belts, and scrambling to their posts on the wall. Henoth absently watched his youngest sibling, Hemnan, stumble his way up the steps to reach the top of the outpost's keep.

Istuion, ever in control, made his way through the organized chaos to the gates on the opposite side of the courtyard. Hallam stood waiting, two rangers poised to pull open the double doors behind him.

"Nev'r before 'ave I seen Easterlin's dressed so 'eavily in gold," spoke Hallam. "Maybe in passin,' when I caught a quick glimpse of 'a Eastern noble at tha' docks of Umbar, but not like this. Not 'ere."

The young captain's brow furrowed in puzzled thought. "It causes me to wonder: what has changed? You and the rest of the garrison have been defending this post for over seven years, correct? Why would these traders, who come so willingly for seven years to be shot down, now travel to this post like they are an entourage of a King?"

"The world has grown darker with time," rumbled Ohtar. "Mayhaps the more favorable Easterlings feel this same darkness, giving them cause to hasten their steps in some way."

"We will inevitably find out," said Walda, "If your suspicions are true."

"Open the gates!" ordered Istuion, yelling out to the two rangers.

Thick wood creaked, steel hinges screamed, and the gates opened wide enough to allow Walda, Hallam, Ohtar, and Istuion pass. Henoth dashed off to find his post, and tell his eldest brother. Hemtas was in charge of the garrison when the four rangers were absent.

Istuion listened to the crash of the gates, signaling that they were once again closed. He stood on a slight incline, proof that the Poros outpost had been built atop a very small hill. Laid out before him, the young captain could see the flat land stretching far out into the distance. The Easterlings were bright and colorful against the dry landscape, the quiet rumbling of hurried camels and a select few horses easily heard from where they stood.

Decidedly, the youth stepped forward. Walda, Ohtar, and Hallam silently followed in his wake. Glances were exchanged behind their captain's back, wondering what their commanding officer was exactly thinking. Were they walking to meet the entourage? If they traveled too far away from the outpost, they would not have any defense against the Eastern men beyond their own arrows and melee weapons.

As both groups neared each other, details became readily seen. Henoth's phrase, draped in gold, was a weak description in the face of what met Istuion's murky hazel eyes. The Easterlings were _dripping_ in it. Numerous chains hung down their chests, layered across their silk-wrapped bodies. Almost all of them wore varying shades of indigo blue and linen white, splashing rich color onto the arid scenery. Cloth swaddled a number of their heads, reminding Istuion of keffiyeh that men wore in the Middle East. Camels, long-necked creatures with knobbed legs, long heads, and humped bodies, were laden with vibrant volts of colored fabric, weaponry, and food. Their harnesses and reins were decorated with blue tassels and aqua thread, woven together with spun silver and gold. The few Eastern men who rode horses had hints of red sewn onto their equine's gear, alongside polished gold and silver bells. With each clopping step, soft jingles responded.

At the head of the approaching Easterlings, two men sat proudly atop their well-groomed steeds.

One man was young, close to Istuion's age, much to the rangers' surprise. His features were a handsome mix of western and eastern looks, dark stubble lining his tanned jaw. The man's eyes were a shocking blue, akin to the sky overhead, unlike Hallam's. He wore numerous layers of blue and grey, with a sleeveless top coat of black. Around his waist was a wide leather belt, patterns sewn in gold crawling across it. A decorated hook-shaped sheath for a knife and a curved eastern sword were tucked beneath the belt at the man's hip. His keffiyeh was a wrapped about his neck, not worn atop his head. The man's neck was heavy with gold beneath the draped keffiyeh.

The other man was old and covered from head-to-toe in black. How he was not dying from the heat, Istuion was amazed. The gold and silver the weighed his neck almost glowed in the sun against his dark attire. Underneath his gold-embroidered, wide leather belt, a bright sash of canary yellow bloomed in the sunlight to match his rich finery. Two curved swords, their hook-shaped sheaths plated in polished gold and jewels, were tucked in place at his left hip. A cape of deep crimson and lined with turquoise was pinned to the elderly man's shoulders with two silver-spun brooches in the form of raptors. Their eyes were sapphires. His beard was nearly snow white, and his pale eyebrows were bushy. Every one of his fingers bore a ring. The man looked every bit what Istuion thought an Eastern lord would look like. He, in comparison to the elder male, felt painfully underdressed.

Captain Istuion and Walda stepped forward. Hallam and Ohtar hung back a few paces, acting only as guards. Both sides stared in silence at one another as they studied their opposites. West meeting East.

Then, suddenly, the old man spoke. His voice was deep and aged, yet unwavering in its strength. It echoed on the wind, perhaps so much so that the rangers on the stone walls of the outpost far behind them could hear. The young Easterling beside him spoke a moment after.

Much to Istuion's shock, he spoke in Common. _A translator?!_

"I am Mahnal sâd-Hathol," the young Easterner declared to the small group of four, serving as the old man's mouthpiece, "Lord of the Kajbah and master of the river-rocks that divide its body! I would be honored to have your names, Westmen, for this is the first time we have met face-to-face!"

Istuion blinked, taking in the long-winded title. He wondered where or what the Kajbah was, and if river-rocks meant a large river, or a river nearby rocky mountains. After an awkward moment's pause, and overcoming his surprise, the ranger captain responded.

"I am Istuion, son of none! I am the heir of Iorlas, and captain of the garrison that defends the Poros outpost for Gondor!" Dutifully Walda acted as the opposite translator to Mahnal's, shouting out in the same language the elderly Easterner spoke.

"Let the sand protect your steps upon our moment of meeting, Captain Istuion," was the reply. "I thank the Weaver for allowing our paths to meet, as the years before this have been long filled with death on both our sides."

"I am thankful we meet now as well, though I think it is not as timely as it could have been," said Istuion. "An enemy host from your eastern lands attacked us nigh five days ago, killing four of our people and my commander."

Mahnal's face wrinkled. "My heart is with you, Captain Istuion. The Eye's followers are everywhere in the Kajbah and in the lands of my fellow clansmen. It is for this reason I have come to your stone post, in fact. The blue wizards have long tried to communicate with your outpost, knowing that their messengers may die. Such attempts have failed for nigh seven years. Perhaps the West has lost the skill to know friend from foe amidst this war between us, and your master is an unforgiving man. But now, after seven years of toil between our lands, I come to you myself to speak!" He proclaimed. "I ask you, and your master, to lend us aid!"

Istuion's eyes widened, struggling to absorb the other leader's words. "My lord, are you saying that you have been sending men to this outpost for seven years, hoping to request aid? Truly? Forgive me if my words seem foolish or ignorant, but I am in awe of your perseverance."

"It was not I, Captain Istuion, but the blue wizards. They told me that the West has not known them for many an age, and it is clear to me now that they are right in saying such. The blue wizards have had faith in your land while I have not, and those that believed in their faith have traveled here only to die by your arrows." Mahnal's expression darkened, "But the desert grows dim, and these are desperate times."

S _o the blue wizards didn't die in the East, like some assume they did in Tolkien's books. Instead, they traveled to the East and stayed in the East, hoping to aid the peoples who did not worship Sauron in taking back their lands. Denethor is wrong to have my small battalion kill all Easterlings on sight after all! Walda's records are right!_ I'm _right!_

Filled with elation and determination at the realization, Istuion addressed the Eastern lord directly. "Mahnal sâd-Hathol, lord of the Kajbah and master of the river-rocks that divide its body, harken unto me! I cannot speak for my master, the Steward Denethor, at this time. If I were to meet with him in the White City and hear your request from my lips, however, I know he would have me hanging from a noose for what I have done this day; for meeting with you in earnest. My men, in fact, could very well all be put to death for obeying my orders in this matter. Standing law in Pelargir and the realm of Ithilien declares that any man found with evidence of conversing and trading with Easterlings is to be put to death. My master, my lord, has lost the sight to discern friend from foe when it comes to men of the East.

"But I cannot in good faith continue to follow his orders, not anymore. I am young, I admit, but I have already seen enough of slaughter. On both our sides!" Istuion professed strongly. "My captain is dead, and I stand now in his place. My pain drove me to investigate the happenings of this post, and in doing so, have come to meet you. I cannot speak for my master, the Steward Denethor, but I can speak for myself. I would like to offer you aid in whatever capacity I can, my lord, while still serving Gondor."

The youth's words, filled so abruptly with vigor, surprised Mahnal and his translator. Hallam and Ohtar were struck dumb in shock behind their captain. Walda was wide-eyed after he finished translating, gazing upon his commanding officer in a stupor.

"Though I have ridden far to reach this stone post, I did not think you would so readily offer me aid," remarked Mahnal. Walda broke the young captain of his shocked daze and struggled to quickly translate.

Istuion smiled, a stray thought coming to mind as he composed his reply. It caught the two Eastern men off-guard.

"Your situation reminds me of a poem, my lord. It is a poem from far across the sea, in a language not spoken by men of the West or the East.

"I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is _Ozymandias_ , King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

"It is similar to your troubles, though it is perhaps not by the fault of a hubris king but by an evil eye who seeks to hold dominion over your land. I would like to see your desert, riddled with its broken works and scattered people, have back its true passions and its strength. I would like, if God were kind, for the West and East to no longer kill one another in the name of war. Young I may be, but wise am I for wanting to resolve this never-ending battle in peace and not bloodshed."

The Eastern lord's translator grinned. As he finished relaying the youth's words, Mahnal bowed his head slightly toward the captain.

"You are wise to want for such a thing, Captain Istuion. You are also too clever with your words, for you say the words that need to be said and leave me without mine. I accept your offer of aid, and in turn request to assemble tents in the shade of your stone post. We have much to discuss," he said with a smile.

Istuion bowed low. "I would be honored to have you occupy the refreshing shade, my lord, and look forward to future discussions."

The translator turned upon his horse, yelling out to the entourage of men at his back. Cries of triumph and jubilation rose up, and Mahnal allowed himself to grin at their happiness. Istuion continued to smile, almost enchanted by the sight of the Easterlings, before turning away to return to the Poros outpost.

"Have you done mad, Captain?! If you think you can simply ignore the Steward's orders, carve out your own, and force the lord to accept them, you are truly ill in the head!" cried Walda.

"Why, Walda," Istuion spoke playfully, glancing to the bandaged man, "You and the men of the garrison all agreed to follow me, no matter how wild my plans are. Are you finding yourself with cold feet already?"

"Well—"

"I fer' one look forw'rd to this! For tha' first time in ma' life, I will walk tha' desert sands my father had walked. To think!" Hallam exclaimed eagerly.

"I do not regret what I said, Captain," intoned Ohtar, his eyes crinkling with a grin.

"Then may our future be writ with heat and adventure, my good men, for the East is surely filled with both!"

"More like danger and sun sickness," grumbled Walda.

Istuion simply sighed. _I can only hope this is the right decision, Duinhir. I really, really do hope..._


End file.
